Saving Grace
by Maggie Wilde
Summary: A rather ruffled art student, Grace Gilmartin, has Jonathan Crane for a housemate at University. She thought he was just a rude git at first.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note**: Hello dears. This is my attempt at a Batman Fanfiction. Here we go. This might be truly terrible, or good, but have a read and say what you think.

This story will take on a different spin, from most others. For a start, it's set in the UK, so a little AU, but not entirely. I thought about explaining it right here, as there is a certain relevance to it, but I think it will be more interesting if it's explained in the story, from the POV of Crane, although in 3rd person.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything affiliated with the Batman Universe, comics, or films. Etc.

This will count for the entire story. Just everything in general. I can't be arsed to write it on every chapter.

**Note**: The town 'Feston' and its University is entirely fictional.

* * *

A stranger has come  
To share my room in the house not right in the head,  
A girl mad as birds

Bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume.  
Strait in the mazed bed  
She deludes the heaven-proof house with entering clouds

Yet she deludes with walking the nightmarish room,  
At large as the dead,  
Or rides the imagined oceans of the male wards.

She has come possessed  
Who admits the delusive light through the bouncing wall,  
Possessed by the skies

She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust  
Yet raves at her will  
On the madhouse boards worn thin by my walking tears.

And taken by light in her arms at long and dear last  
I may without fail  
Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.

Dylan Thomas,_ 'Love in the Asylum'_

* * *

_Prologue _

She wasn't trying to ruin her life.

She was trying to make it better. That was what she thought.

When really, it was as easy as moulding putty, she was moulded by her peers. She chose this because it was so good that it made her feel like flying, that all the problems of her current day was past, that she could forget about disliking herself to an unbearable extreme.

It was a hot summer that year, when there wasn't a cloud in the sky. When the backs of her clothes stuck to her, until she'd be sat in her mate's rented house, the place stinking, just in her underwear. She tried, once to do everything with the best of intentions, but it failed.

It sank.

Her hope sank.

God knows what anyone she used to know would think of her. She was just a doll, society's plaything. She wasn't anything special, she was just a cardboard cut-out. The veins in her arms.

Blue and purple, skin bruised. Her hair, lank, not like it used to be. Her mind forever frightened.

Her body, ruined but not beyond repair.

Her dignity, her hope; that was ruined beyond repair.


	2. Sky

Every morning she goes for a run.

At first she would really have to push herself out of bed, to wake the body clock, despite its protests. She would do it before breakfast, when the air was still crisp with the night air, and the sun's rays were warming the quiet roads, the songs of the blackbirds drifting throughout the streets.

She felt uncomfortable, at first. Old, baggy sweatpants, rolled up to her knees, to run in. Her somewhat stringy, greasy hair tied back in a ponytail. Swish, swish, swish it went behind her head as she pounded down her driveway, towards the pavement. She did a little loop around the area, and by the time she was coming back, more traffic lined the streets.

People glanced at her, curiously, out of habit. She felt uncomfortable still jogging on the spot as she tried to cross the busy road. She felt her cheeks sting crimson with the exercise. Her lungs were struggling. She ended up walking the rest of the way home, wanting to escape back to the dark recesses of her bed.

That was how it started. Her plan to get better. To do better, to feel better. To wake up clean with a good purpose, although it was difficult, although she felt like lying in her bed all day, like she used to.

She had a room that was white-walled and bright in the sunlight. She did not have much in her room. She had a large bed, with white covers, a mattress that sat on a risen wooden podium.

One little leather chair with a printed Aztec pattern cushion sat in the corner. Beside it, a large chest of drawers, decorated with art utensils on the top. The main attraction of the room was a large framed photograph of a buffalo, taken side on. The room was white and brown.

Simple. But unused, it was lacking in something. It reeked slightly of incense. The remainders of it were the ash that was caked round a little glass vial, that once held the stick.

She kept jogging, every morning, except for the weekends, where she would lie in late, very late, until midday. Her mother was never pleased with that. Jostling her awake, on a Sunday.

Time for church. Always time for bloody church. At the present moment, she lived off her jogs and her occasional painting, which was not as good as it used to be. Her parents' house was a detached house in Surrey. Plain, clean, very minimalistic, like her bedroom, but that was not her mother's choice, as with the rest of the rooms in the house. She just did not bother with it, although her bed was forever unmade. Her painting used to be brilliant, full of bright colours before she had succumbed.

She had thrown most of her stuff out a few years ago, not wanting to have memories.

She saw her parents' house come slowly into view, as she kept jogging, even if her thighs were burning, and her face felt as red as a beetroot. The strands of her hair were plastered around her face, stuck to her forehead.

The Youngbloods was playing on her music player, over and over again, as she had run for half an hour. Anything to just get out of the house, away from her mother and father. She pondered on the subject of her friends, the ones she had at university and how they had never spoken since she had graduated. Not one of them had bothered to pick up the phone, or tap something into the computer.

She had tried, at first, and left it.

Sometimes she had been invited out for a drink further into town, but with little money and little energy for anything except her jogging she had refused many times. That was when they had finally lost interest. She turned up the volume on her music player louder, so that The Youngbloods were booming in her ears, their soft melodious voices soothing her, as she tried to forget the pathetic social life she now did not have.

They were her favourite band. There was a poster of them on her wall, above her bed, their 60s smart tailored suits a sharp contrast to those messy, relaxed hairstyles. The only other picture in her room beside the buffalo. And a framed photograph of her Scottish grandmother on her wooden bedside table.

It had all been fun and games at university, so they say. So they think.

It was supposed to be the time of your life, the golden years, where you met your future lover and friends that would last forever. You would grow up there.

Well, she sure as hell did grow up. But everything else had been constructed, socially, like constructing sandcastles in the air. She had succumbed to the need to fit in, the fear of being ostracised if she did not. She had always been the little chameleon, the one who moulded their personality to hop on the bandwagon. The only time she was herself, properly, was when she was painting.

Until her third year at university, the drugs had forced her to an ultimatum and she grew up. She had at least one relationship; that fizzled and died. She had slept with three other men, one who wasn't even a student. None of them that good-looking. One that wanted something. The other two looked at her in slight shock and told her to get out. Her parents knew absolutely nothing about her and what she had done.

Her parents were Catholic. They were strict. They thought she was somebody when she was not. She had spent the last five years pretending to be two people at once; the quiet, studious, creative girl to her parents, and the funny, laid-back druggie girl to her 'friends' at university. The thing was no one cared about her truly enough; they all wanted her to be something she wasn't.

She drank until she woke up with various cuts, bruises on her body, until she had lost her phone and woke up in an unfamiliar bedroom. She smoked variously, until her pockets were stuffed with empty filter packets, and her purse was empty. She injected heroin until the veins in her right arm died and she missed her exams in the second year. She had to pay fifty pounds to re-sit it.

She painted a screaming woman; one with dead limbs for a body. She was dead. Her personality did not exist and her life did not exist.

She tried various stages.

She went cold turkey at several points. She had to get help after a while, and served some time in a rehabilitation centre. It had been the worse three years of her life. She had managed to scrape a 2:1.

How she did it, she did not know. Perhaps it was the horror of her addiction and the downfall of her behaviour which was presented in her art. The lecturer told her she was exceptional….original. If only he had known.

She stopped in front of her house, sighing loudly. Her house was on a quiet little avenue. In a perfect little Conservative neighbourhood, with perfect people who led perfect little lives. They all thought she was a bright student, although weren't very keen on her particular chosen university and her chosen degree. It was that kind of neighbourhood where you were not quite good enough for anybody.

She stopped The Youngbloods, gazing at her house, both loving it and hating it simultaneously. She had to tell them of her actions. She would miss out the public vandalism, the various drunken one-night stands and the fact that she missed an exam because she was lying on her bathroom floor, being sick until her body was empty. All they knew she had her heart broken and that sometimes she phoned up in tears because she was 'stressed' and 'lonely.' Her mother would only ask her to be strong, and tell her she was beautiful and that she had lots of friends. To get a grip and stop worrying about 'what's-his-name.'

That's not it, it's not him, he's a catalyst to it all, she wanted to yell down the phone.

There was little old Mrs. Nesbit, walking her dog, a knitted hat on top of her head. She had a large gold brooch on the lapel of her woollen coat.

"Mornin' Gracie," she said, and continued to walk on.

The girl didn't have much of a liking for the old bat and only hesitantly replied, forcing a smile which never came out in the end. She felt the woman could x-ray her with her eyes, see all her secrets. She turned back to her large detached house, with her land rover parked outside the front. She would tell them today. She would have to. Before she went away again; for she was going to study for a Masters degree in Fine Art.

She would go back up north, where this university was, near York, where she originally lived until she was seventeen. She'd never been happy in Surrey; her accent was out of place. It was lucky for her mother, she had originally come from Surrey and that's why they moved.

Closer to her mother's family, and her father was happy to comply, his new job being stationed in London. Her mother didn't work. She helped mostly out at the local church. The girl slipped the earphones out of her ears as she walked up to the front door of the house. She pushed the door open, which her mother kept on the latch for her. She was instantly greeted by the smell of fresh bread as she entered the hallway that was spotless. There was unsavoury china plates lined up on the wall in the large hallway that hardly contained anything in it. There was an umbrella stand and a coat rack, with shoes neatly arranged under.

A pair of Hunter wellington boots, a pair of brogues, and a pair of converses.

Hers. Her mother hated them. They were baby pink and were covered with mud. The girl walked through the hallway towards the kitchen. It was an old-fashioned kitchen with an old stove, and copper pans hanging over the sink. Blue delft tiles decorated the kitchen. Her mother had her back turned, and she was kneading some dough. The girl's eyes drifted towards the already baking piece of bread in the oven. Her palms were sweaty, clammy, and a large knot formed in her stomach.

"Good run, dear?" her mother spoke, having heard the door around five minutes ago.

Her daughter was oddly silent; every time she came back from a jog she was usually, and quite terribly, out of breath. She nearly jumped in fright when the dog burst through the back door, tongue hanging out, and golden fur soaking. The mother's eyes drifted above her kneading to outside; it had begun to rain, very hard, and her washing was outside.

She sighed, slapping her hands together, the flour puffing into the air.

"Help me get the washing in?"

The girl liked to think she had a good relationship with her mother, but now she was going to completely and utterly ruin it, which brought tears to her eyes. The back of her throat burned with her unshed tears; she hadn't had a good cry in about three years.

Her mother could have a look of a fifties housewife, except she wore a checked shirt over ripped jeans, along with printed wellies on her feet. Her mother, as much as she could be unbearable and overly fanatic with her clean house and faith, the girl felt a huge sweep of affection for her mother. Her mother always wore her dyed blonde-ish hair in victory rolls. Her mother frowned a little, seeing her daughter hesitate, and waver, her eyes brimming with tears.

"You alright, pet?"

The girl burst into tears. Her mother was so shocked she stood there gaping for half a minute. Last time she saw her own daughter cry was around five years ago, before she left for university. She told them she wasn't confident enough and hated education really. T

hey just brushed these feelings away with 'Come, come, now, don't be silly.'

"Gracie?"

"I'm NOT okay! And don't you dare tell me I'm silly," her daughter suddenly sobbed.

Her mother felt a little embarrassed. Her twenty-four year old who had been coping with herself away from home was crying like a four year old in front of her.

She didn't move forward to embrace her, confused, a little frightened.

"I'm moving up to Feston to study postgraduate art…" she trembled.

"Well, that's good, isn't it? A bit late to be telling me, but that – that is…good…"

Her mother was frowning deeply, her lips pressed together, looking as if she was sucking a lemon. She had the feeling that what she was going to hear now would not please her in the slightest. Was she pregnant?

Her daughter ran a hand through her lanky, greasy hair, and she clutched at her music player tightly, for dear life, nearly praying for courage.

"I scraped through university because I was a heroin addict, Mum. That was why I was always so tired and so skinny and why I never showed my arms on holiday in Italy…"

She hated to be reminded of that painful holiday which had been cut painfully short. Her mother's face was unfathomable, perhaps indescribable. Her mother was agape and her crossed arms tightened. There was a pin-drop silence; there was only the sound of the oven whirring. The dog ran through the room after staring at its bowl after a quiet, forlorn five minutes, brushing past the girl, who had tears running down her cheeks. They splashed onto her little blue vest top, little dark blue splodges making patterns. Her mother suddenly put a hand to her mother, when her daughter held up both her arms, walking closer to her, showing the little pin pricks that covered all the inside of her arms. Her mother's eyes wavered, and she began to cry. But her daughter didn't expect her mother to turn back around, and start to knead the dough again.

The girl stood there in shock, her lip quivering, repeating 'Mum' over again, waiting desperately for a response. She had finished university three years ago, and she had been a cleaner ever since. For the past year or two, she had drifted away from her friends who were not really friends at all. The people she had got to know who were also addicts, had been cut out of her life even before her graduation. But the rest, who she thought she could trust, had drifted away, like a loner on plywood at sea.

They were not really bothered; they were all self-indulgent, just like they had been at university. That was her only opinion. Self-indulgent, never pondering once that she might have just been the same. The trouble was she was ever so lonely. She was no longer that girl who fitted in with everyone else, who never had a best friend, who always hung around in groups, cracking the odd joke, but mostly ignored. She touched her mother's shoulder, which was shaking slightly.

"Mum?"

"The sooner you go away to do your postgraduate the better," her mother sniffled, but she sounded like she was about to breathe fire.

"I coped all by myself, and now I'm better. Wouldn't you rather know now?" Her mother span back around, her eyes flaming.

"That's not _the point_! The point is the fact that you are not the girl I've known for twenty-four years! What else do you need to tell me? That you're addicted to nicotine and alcohol as well? You've had sex with a dozen boys? You are every bit of a self-indulgent brat!"

The girl turned her head away, becoming angry, but her face reddened. She had done exactly all those things, although three one-night stands was not 'a dozen boys.'

"So because I had an addiction, you think automatically I would be addicted to everything?" Her mother spluttered sarcastically, slapping her hands together, the flour flying out in clumps in the air. The girl let more tears run down her face, feeling utterly helpless.

Her mother murmured she would be telling her husband when he came back from work, as if Grace had just wet the bed again. The girl wiped her tears away angrily with the back of her hand, sniffing harshly. She suddenly hated the back of her mother's head; that dyed hair that looked like straw from all the wear and tear throughout the years. She hated to think of her straight-laced father, who would come home, with his bloody shiny briefcase, smiling brightly, moustache bristling.

How her mother would tell him, crying, how he would come thundering up the stairs.

"I never expected you to understand, but you have to know…" the girl wept.

Her mother was kneading the bread very hard now, she in fact she had kneaded it too much, and it was becoming unusable.

"Please leave. Don't come back until church."

It was the custom on Fridays to go. The girl walked over to the door of the kitchen.

"I'm not going, Mum." Her mother sighed loudly, and span back around.

"I don't need this!" she yelled at the top of her lungs. "Don't do this Grace!" Grace whipped the door open, finally loosing her temper, something which happened more often these days.

"I don't need this bullshit. I'm not going. Where was it when I was going through hell? Face it, Mum, you cannot ever look at the truth in the eye. You need your bloody church to make it all _nice _for you. Well life isn't like that!"

She found she had been shouting, the tears now gone. Her mother just stood there, astounded with her own daughter. It was as if she had lost the young girl she had loved so much overnight. But the girl, oddly enough was right. And she wasn't a girl; she was a young woman now. She realised she had no clue, whatsoever, about her daughter. She didn't know about this woman at all.

Only that everything had gone smoothly from school through university, and that she was just a normal, average girl, who fitted into society well, despite her creative ways. The mother's eyes glanced up, hearing the sound of the door closing. Why was Frank here?

He took off his raincoat and hung it up, frowning at the racket that had just commenced. He saw both his wife and daughter in tears, their faces red. His body sagged in reaction. His wife was clenching the dough tightly, while his daughter was clutching the door frame. He had come early. Being one of the top heads in his department, who ran half the company, he wasn't often needed on a Friday.

"What is going on here?" he demanded, raising his voice unnecessarily. He always had to do that at the wrong moments, because all he cared for was peace and order.

His daughter didn't even look at him, as she brushed past him, and ran through the hallway, towards the staircase on the far right, her feet banging on the steps. He called for her name angrily, but he was astounded when she did not reply like she did normally.

She was always so compliant, but this was not the Grace he knew. She locked herself in her room for the rest of the day, and refused dinner and her father's requests to talk to her. He began talking to her outside the door; what had happened, why had she upset her mother, why was she acting so ….out of sorts? He didn't like disorder, or chaos that ruptured his daily life. Most of all, he didn't understand emotion, and probably never would or would want to. He had been brought up by parents whom he hardly saw.

He went to work when he was eighteen, and that was the end of it. He didn't even know where they lived now. Somewhere up in Yorkshire, rotting away. He had spent most of his time in boarding schools, where emotion was not allowed, where he had to suck it up and blend in. He thought emotion was a waste of time, and didn't understand his wife or daughter. He kept knocking on her door, until she flung open the door and she nearly yelled the entire story to him. She told him he didn't know who the hell she was.

He was aghast, he was in shock, and nearly dropped the mug of tea he brought up for her. This act of kindness by her father reduced her to tears and she almost felt guilty. No, she was guilty.

Every inch of her soul was soaked with guilt. Her father, who slightly resembled actor Jerry Orbach, just stood there, his greying hair catching the light, and for the first time she had ever seen, his lip trembled.

"I….Gracie I don't believe it…."

But he didn't go up to her and hug her just like he wanted to, or looked like he was going to.

She closed her door once she had seen he wasn't going to talk to her anymore, and sat back on the bed. It was predictable. Her suitcase was packed, all ready to go. It was a couple of weeks before the semester started. She had handed her notice in at work.

She hated being a cleaner; she had hated her miserable life for the past three years. It only consisted of cleaning, the odd drink with the odd acquaintance, which was rare in any case and mostly sitting in her room. Sketching, painting or reading. Or looking at the internet which presented people, her old friends who disappointed her, that were having a successful life.

What they wanted to portray anyway. They could have their own problems. But she was unable to see that. She took out a box full of Ritz crackers and began munching on them. She sensed her father left the mug outside her door, and she opened it to find it there, steaming. It was a cup of redbush tea, her favourite.

It was lukewarm, and she sipped it. She changed into her pyjamas and got into bed. Even if it was six o' clock in the evening.

She would sleep and sleep until these two weeks passed by.


	3. Water

It was the day that she was going to move, probably forever.

The last two weeks had been very strained. Both of her parents refused to talk to her, especially her mother who didn't insomuch bat an eyelash at her. Her father occasionally brought mugs of tea, but he didn't attempt to give her 'the talk' or get any information out.

He seemed to be at work more than usual, and her mother was always at the church. She wasn't sure if her mother was more upset about the heroin addiction or the fact that she said she didn't want to go to church and said that it was all 'bullshit'.

She took whatever shift she could at work, despite hating it deeply, she found that being at work amongst other people who made the effort to talk to her was quietly refreshing.

The thing was, since she had applied ever so late for her postgraduate course, there were no more spaces in limited postgraduate student accommodation. She often wondered why she was doing this to herself; did she really want that bloody student life all over again? The one that had driven her to her troubles?

Wasn't she trying to get away from it? But she hadn't, not one bit in all these three years, which had gone so quickly. She felt she had wasted the last six years of her life. It had all gone wrong; she had felt at first, when they moved down to Surrey from York. She had been somewhat happy in York; although now she realised she had been a sheep amongst the rest at school, so anxious to fit in, and be like the rest. She was frightened of being alone. She did not feel frightened anymore.

0000000000000000000000000000 000000000000000

Grace Gilmartin, twenty-four years of age, stood in front of her suitcase, checking she had absolutely everything.

She had one large suitcase and a holdall that was specifically for her art utensils. Leaning against the white wall, was her easel. That would definitely be a pain to carry onto the probably very busy train. She was taking the main train up north, changing twice before she would reach Feston, a small town that was near York. It was seven in the morning, so her father would have not left yet.

She had managed to find, in a suburban area of Feston, a small three-bedroom terraced house that was looking for two occupants. Must be a non-smoker, and a familiar postgraduate student. It had a contact number, and she had spoken to the landlord who had the most northern accent she had ever heard. He didn't take heed of her similar accent, presuming she was local. She wanted to scream she was coming home. Her room was barer than it used to be.

The buffalo picture was still there, and she had been debating on whether to take it or not. She had taken The Youngbloods down, and her Scottish grandmother.

Deciding she couldn't leave her buffalo, she took the picture out of the frame, rolled it up, and settled him next to her favourite band in a separate plastic bag.

She checked off her list; her favourite owl pyjamas, hairbrush, one fluffy scarf, two pairs of leggings, her music player, her clock, her various plain sketchbooks, canvas paper, paintbrushes, palette, palette knife, linseed oil, oil paints (all seventeen), toiletries, underwear, her mug, two pairs of jeans, two skirts, three t-shirts, three blouses, four pairs of socks, four pairs of tights, her sweatpants, one vest top, thee cardigans, cosmetics, one pair of boots, one pair of flat ballet-shoes, her pink converses, her running shoes….

It just about fitted all in her suitcase and holdall. She noted that it was only going to be two occupants in the house, for the landlord could not find another tenant.

The shortage of postgraduates this year was astonishing, he had remarked. He told her she was doing well, that she wanted to continue her education. He went a little quiet when she told him what she wanted to do. He didn't tell her who the other student was, only that they were male.

She rolled her eyes at his tone of voice. She stuffed her mobile phone away into her saddle bag and picked her things up, having to make a second trip. She placed her things at the front door, ruffling the dog's fur when it came to greet her at the bottom of the staircase. Her mother was in the kitchen, already up and making cakes in the kitchen. Cakes for the annual fair at the church today, a raffle, a competition, karaoke, a service, games….it was all so dreadfully dull, she had often found the people there frustratingly patronising, especially when she was asked about 'what she was doing with her degree.'

She shuffled into the kitchen, hitching her saddle bag further onto her shoulder. Her father was sat at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee, reading the newspaper that was spread across the table. He did not look up at first. She cleared her voice a little awkwardly, causing her father to casually look up. His face was impassive.

"I'm going now," she spoke, her voice wavering.

Her mother spoke without turning, whipping the cake mixture together with a little more force than necessary.

"Goodbye."

It was so cold and formal, that Grace had to contain every little emotion inside her; she had to clench her fists tight in order not to burst, like an overflowing dam. Her father looked up from his newspaper, standing up, walked over to her, and patted her on the shoulder.

"Good luck for this year, Gracie," was all he said.

She didn't even know her parents herself. She had never experienced such detached coldness from them; she didn't even feel like she was part of the family anymore.

But she couldn't explain, they would not want to hear it, lest of all her mother. They did not know each other, but they loved each other very much. She turned around and walked towards the door. She held in her tears until she got onto the train. She had hauled all her things towards the train station, which had been two miles away. Her parents didn't ask what she was doing, how she was getting there.

They did absolutely nothing.

She felt completely helpless, and unloved. People on the streets gave her curious glances, with her struggling. The easel was giving her the most strain. Finally the train station arrived and she collected her pre-paid tickets. Once she had struggled onto the train, and struggled towards her allocated seat, which was next to a middle-aged man in a suit, she began crying, uncontrollably.

She hadn't cried like this for so long. The man noticed the girl's tears, and five minutes later he moved, having been made extremely uncomfortable. Even the ticket man gave her an awkward glance.

She felt like she hated everyone, the entire world and their stiff manners. The train journey was three and a half hours long. Guildford to York, changing at London on the way. After she got off at York, she had to take a bus to Feston, which was around half an hour long.

Her spirits were already further dampened when she had seen her ex-boyfriend in Guildford Station, sipping on a coffee with her ex-friend. She found out around a month after their spilt, her old friend Chloe had started something with him. It had deepened her wounds, and seeing them together on that day, she felt more wretched than ever.

She was utterly rejected by every single human being, she felt.

It was no longer a struggle when she decided that it was best to take a taxi to her new home for the next year, rather than struggle to find it. The taxi driver faffed around, trying to put her easel into the back of the car, and she was forced to ride in the front with him.

He was trying to talk to her, asking where she was going with the art easel, making a poor joke about artists. She was hardly listening to him, and didn't even say thank you when he dropped her off at her destination. It was now pouring with rain, so hard that it bounced off the tarmac and concrete pavement. The road that the terraced houses were on seemed a little austere.

It was up north, so it was bound to be colder, and greyer, but the old houses seemed bleaker than ever.

The house that she stood in front of seriously needed new paintwork.

There were various household appliances that had been dumped outside, probably unusable now because it was raining, and they appeared as if they had been outside for about a month; there was rust growing around the corners of the metal microwave.

There was a straw mat outside, infused with damp and mud. The front bay window had its rather worn looking curtains drawn, the appearance suggesting they had not been opened for a long time, perhaps a few months. It unnerved her somewhat. She was meant to wait for the landlord; he would go through the agreement with her, and she would sign it.

He told her she could move in straight away. Her keys were in the kitchen on the table. Wherever the kitchen was. Holding her breath, after leaning her easel against the wall of the house, the number fifteen barely hanging off the dilapidated wall, she knocked on the door very loudly, her knuckles thumping afterwards. Her new housemate was supposed to let her in; she just hoped desperately he was there. She knew what students were like, especially that of the male.

Still, he was a postgraduate, like she had been told. That was all she knew. She hadn't the chance to get a name.

The rain had soaked through her hood, and ran down her face in rivets.

She blinked the water out her eyes painfully, spotting a doorbell, and pressed it a couple of times. No doubt the guy would be in bed. She had to make generalisations. From what she had experienced, the student male clan seemed to have the same mindset, bright or not, lazy or not, rich or not.

She heard vague booming music in the distance, down the street, which she couldn't make out. Her hands were hardening on her suitcase handle, the holdall's strap was cutting into her shoulder, despite her thick woollen coat. She was moving her lips, murmuring, open the flipping door.

She rang the bell four times, now indifferent to first impressions. She felt, slowly, the tears well back up. She was all alone, little Grace Gilmartin, with no friends and with now an estranged family.

She rapped harder and harder on the door, and shouted a 'Hello' as loudly as she could, becoming impatient.

There was no sound; it was just pure silence, apart from the traffic in the distance and the splatter of rain. Growing impatient, she noticed the front window of the house was slightly open. It was a vertical oblong in shape, and opened inwards from below. She wasted no time, her patience snapping finally.

She wasn't going to be the victim in all this, especially after this tiresome day. Thankfully it opened inwards enough so she could slip inside, the musty-smelling curtain (just as she suspected) brushing over her head. It was terribly dark inside, and her foot caught on the ledge of the window sill. She tumbled to the ground, catching her knees on the worn carpet. Her right knee throbbed in pain. It had never been right since she sustained a bruise after a night out which took weeks to heal. Another night she had no recollection of.

A night where she had awoken in a strange man's bed.

The house smelt terribly; it was musty and damp. As if something was leaking or something had not been washed for quite a while.

"Christ, smells like something's _died _in here," she muttered, brushing bits of lint from her knees.

She felt around in the dark, until she touched the cold metal of a door handle. It led out into a tiny hallway, which was also dark.

Seeing the painted glass of the front door, she twisted the lock, and flung open the door, rushing out to grab her things. _I could have been a burglar, would have been so easy. Clearly this guy is a very inexperienced student. Or just arrogant. Or naïve-_

"Who the hell are you?" suddenly came a sharp, raspy voice from the end of the tiny hallway.

A door had opened, flooding light in, and she could see beyond the figure, a patio door and a small kitchen. She wasn't really interested in the figure; quite frankly she was pissed off. Soup was being cooked, she sensed.

Grace let her suitcase drop and shook her damp hair irritably.

"Your new housemate, pal, and apparently you're deaf as a post."


	4. Air

The strange figure abruptly turned around, letting the door slam behind him.

It slammed with quite a loud bang, and she frowned, staring after him, not quite believing his crudeness. Not allowing this to faze her, she brought her easel into the hallway. The hallway was modest. And cramped. She turned on the light, via the light switch next to her, and it threw the place into ungodly light. She could see every crevice, and it was covered in dust.

Ahead of her, a steep carpeted staircase, which looked like it hadn't been hoovered for….

God knows how long.

She began muttering to herself….back to the bloody first year of my undergraduate degree. People who don't know how to look after themselves and standard personal hygiene. The kitchen door rapidly flung back open, emitting a slight gasp from her.

The figure, who was fairly lanky in shape, propped the door open, not giving her a second glance.

She couldn't see what he looked like because of the light flooding in from the little door at the end of the room. The dirtiness of the house and the discourtesy of her new housemate and fellow student did not faze her in the slightest.

Any other person would be severely discouraged, perhaps a little wary, but she strolled into the kitchen, whipping off her scarf, and dumping it on the kitchen chair as if she had been here for months already. The kitchen was tiled, the kitchen units made out of plastic, made to look like black granite.

It was all finished off quite cheaply. The kitchen was extremely tiny, however.

Outside was a rotting shed with a broken door, below. There was another flat below them. All they had was a balcony, with a single rubbish bin and a mop and bucket. The grass in the garden below probably housed snakes. One saucepan, God knows why, was right at the back of the garden, mostly likely housing maggots. She tried to work out if mice and rats were included; probably in this grubby house, she surmised. Grace had a mouse problem in the second year of her undergraduate degree.

She realised she had been staring and observing far too much, and far too long, without having spoken to the guy, but it hardly mattered as he had been incredibly rude. He startled her out of her thoughts.

"When does the landlord come over? Your keys are on the table," he said, his back turned to her.

He was stirring a mixture of meat and vegetables in a large saucepan on the gas stove. He had spoken very quickly, but she could detect a hint of an American accent in his raspy voice.

He sounded like he hadn't talked in months. Either that or he was a very heavy smoker.

"Can't remember. Did you not hear the door go?" she replied.

He still did not turn around.

Grace was growing impatient, and whipped the keys up, jangling them, to get his attention. When that failed, she leaned against the sink and craned her neck. He was dressed in grey woollen trousers, a white cotton shirt covered with a forest green jumper which had several holes in the arm. He was bare-footed, although she couldn't work out why, because the house was absolutely freezing.

He had long fingers, she noted, as she watched him stir his soup. However the elegance of his hands was ruined by his nails which were in terrible condition, he either cut them very short or had a very bad nail-biting habit. He reached across towards the right of him, for the salt and pepper.

"Barely," he replied, his voice cold.

She scowled at him. _You don't know who you're talking to, mate. _

"Mind showing me where my room is?" she tested lightly, feeling her heart plunge into a deep pit which was her stomach.

A never-ending pit, and it felt like she was about to drown in her impending misery. Her life was a failure. She tried again. "Grace Gilmartin, by the way." It was a minute before he turned around, and faced her directly. He had extremely cold light eyes, so bright, even in the darkness, framed by a thin, high-cheekboned face.

He was gaunt-looking. She felt like she had been turned to stone, feeling perhaps his thinness was not due to student savings on food.

"Up the stairs, second door on the right. All the rooms are upstairs. You are next to me. The third door is the bathroom. The key to your room is the same you have just picked up."

She swallowed, nodding slowly, but pulled out a goofy smile. He was the un-friendliest American she had ever come across. Her previous university had been full of them, but they had all been so wonderfully affable. Still, one must soldier on, she thought. Perhaps he's really shy.

"Brilliant! I might need some help with my easel – pretty heavy and those stairs look bloody awful…" He just stared at her as if she landed from a different solar system. He blinked only once, then cleared his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing a little. His hard gaze washed over her like tidal wave, leaving her with a feeling of despoilment.

"Jonathan Crane."

He put out a hand, and hesitantly, but still smiling somewhat, she shook it. His handshake was surprisingly strong, and she noticed how his fingernails dug into her skin somewhat. His nose wrinkled when he touched her, and she immediately sensed something.

He disliked her already.

He told her she could leave the easel down here, just as long she didn't get paint everywhere. She finally snapped, pausing at the door.

"Since when do you care about how clean the place is?"

She left him to stew as she hauled her two bags up to her room. She didn't analyse the room. She simply threw her bags down and flopped onto her bed, which already had a duvet and pillows without their covers. The room was freezing. She felt her tears slip out, until they rolled into her ears, making them pop.

Her nose became blocked. She began to sob, and as the sun set, she felt her eyes close.

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It was very dark when she woke up, and the night time was very bleak.

The streetlamps from outside, beyond the garden and onto another street shone in through a chink in her curtains, casting an orangey glow in the room. She briefly forgot where she was and what happened in her life.

Then it came crashing down like a ton of bricks upon her, crushing the breath out of her lungs, and she sucked in a pained, tired breath. The parents. The confession. The crumbling smelly house. The uncouth, strange housemate. Her utter loneliness.

She began shivering, for the house still retained its coldness, furthered by the night. It was only September, but this year had been very cold, and it was going to become colder ever so. The only thing Grace could do, to rid herself of the intense loneliness she was feeling was to unpack everything.

She did it at a slow rate, humming a tune, and plugged her little vintage style analogue radio into the socket beside her bed. The bed was surprisingly comfortable, when she had woken. It was the best feature of the house so far, apart from the fact that she had a large window that reached from top to bottom of her wall. She just hoped it was a good view.

There was a large oak wardrobe in the corner beside the window, and in the other corner a little bookshelf. Her bed was beside the window, tucked in a little corner. She tacked The Youngbloods and her buffalo to her walls. She placed Nannie beside her bed, on the wooden rounded stool.

She put all her clothes into the wardrobe. There were few of them. She placed all her art utensils on the desk, which was located next to the wardrobe.

Sick of the radio, she pulled out her little netbook and started to play The Youngbloods once the tiny computer was started up. Her mind drifted to that of her old life, back in her first University. How those friends eventually drifted away from her, no matter how hard she had tried to pull them back, with the tips of her fingers. They had been like sand running through thin fingers.

She was disappointed to find, that people in general did not bother. She only had to count on herself. Her mind drifted back to her ex-boyfriend and her ex-friend, Chloe, who had eloped with Charlie after a month of splitting with her. Grace shook her head hard. Why on earth was she bringing up these painful memories? Was it become she was now so completely utterly alone, with her pathetic thoughts, and no family, a rather odd housemate in a dank house?

She felt like her chest was a bird cage and the bird that was once squawking and shrieking to be let out, pecking at the bars of the cage, had now died, its decomposing body on the floor. Often when she was alone and out of place would she start thinking painful thoughts because the ever-terrible reminder that she was alone, and utterly alone would lay rest on her like a dark demon, ready to eat away at her mind. Grace busied herself more, taking her time. Then she pottered; dancing away to the music.

Re-arranging the brushes on her desk. Counting all twenty oil paint bottles, twice. Placing her shoes neatly in a line, whistling to The Youngbloods. She was chewing on gum, and took out an anti-bacterial spray, cleaning the edges of the window of mould which had grown there due to condensation. She guessed this room hadn't been lived in a while.

She flung the window open, feeling like Cinderella, in a good way. Clouds of dust flew into the air when she shoved her suitcase at the top of the wardrobe. Coughing, she danced around in the dust, pretending she was in a far-away world, away from this dank house. All she needed was a fairy-godmother. She kept dancing to the old tunes.

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He could hear her, upstairs. He was stood in the kitchen; glass in one hand, pills in the other.

Plain white pills rested in the palm of his hand. It was incredibly dark outside, for five o' clock. Winter was approaching, and it was approaching early.

The bright light in the kitchen reflected off the painted yellow walls giving the room an ugly tone. He could hear her, her feet banging on the thin floorboards. What was she doing?

He tipped the pills into his mouth with ease and swallowed them down with the glass of water, gulping until it was all gone. She was being incredibly noisy. He could sense his irritation growing, but tried to calm it. Perhaps if he went up there and told her to stop it.

He needed to tell her about the room upstairs, in the attic. That was off limits. As was his room, but he knew already she wouldn't dare step a foot in. Hopefully.

He had to tell her about the certain house rules. Wiping his palms on his trouser legs, he exited the kitchen, walked through the hallway, and ascended the stairs.

He craned his head up, stretching to hear the noise as he heard the tuneful sound of a man singing and a guitar twanging - _Some will come and some will go,__we shall surely pass, when the one that left us here, returns for us at last…._

He felt apprehensive, and before he could even think about knocking on her door, she had flung it open, the music momentarily becoming louder, then it was shut off as the fire-door of her room closed with a slam.

He halted on the stairs, staring at her. She didn't happen to see him at first, plodding along the hallway, down a couple of steps, and then turned towards the top of the stairs, halting as she saw him.

"Oh…hi," she spoke, her voice strangely high, as if she had recently been crying.

He double checked and saw that there was no blotchiness around her eyes. She moved automatically out of the way, as he continued to walk up the stairs, and made for him to pass her to enter his room, but he didn't continue to move. She raised her eyebrows, irking him slightly, her arms crossed as she waited for him to respond. However, he didn't, just staring at her, making her feel extremely uncomfortable, and she was forced to speak.

"Did the landlord come over? I dropped off in my room."

He shook his head, clearing his throat.

"No, he didn't. He is like that. So I thought I'd just tell you about the house to fill you in."

She seemed rather bored at his statement, and spoke no further. Thankfully, he pondered, her accent was very strong. He had heard nothing like it before, but yet, they all seemed to talk like that around here. He was at an established university, yet the town's occupants talked hillbilly style. He wasn't sure what the Brit alternative term was.

It was incredible how he gained a new housemate so quickly.

He was hoping, and really, not expecting any one to move in with him, just as it was a week before the semester started, and no one had really shown an interest in the house apart from a couple of people back at the start of the year, who were repulsed and scared off by his rude behaviour.

He did not want anyone living with him. They had all been undergraduates anyway. So he specified to the landlord to advertise the house only mentioning postgraduates.

The girl in front of him was a quite an unusual one, once you got up close to her; but from afar she was anything but special.

She had brownish eyes, that sort of pale, washed out colour. What the water would appear after you finished washing the dishes, especially if they had been covered in gravy. Her eyebrows, which seem like she had difficulty shaping at times, were arched a little. She had a small pert mouth and her shoulder-length brown hair didn't have much life to it.

However, she had a graceful face – that if her hair and clothes were styled in the right way, she would have the poise of an older, sophisticated woman. Perhaps it was her thin face and arched eyebrows. Her voice was quite deep for a woman, but it was a voice that smoked too many cigarettes over the years. He hoped she didn't smoke anymore. With that nineteen seventies-like attire, the cotton lacy shirt, the flared ripped jeans and a brown saddle bag, he immediately imagined her sitting down in a dark basement with other students, getting high.

However her image was ruined as she sported a pair of those women's boots, which were fashionable at the moment; soft and suede-like, under her jeans, a tattered woollen coat with a tartan hood and large silver hoops dangling from her ears. What did she look like?

Ah, yes, the foreign word coming to him, one that he'd heard since he'd been here. Chavvy. Common.

Not someone he'd like. Why was she still wearing her coat? Had she fallen asleep as soon as she came in?

Shaking the image from his mind, he pulled his gaze away, realising he probably had been staring at her.

She'd been waiting for him to say something, bemused by his peculiar behaviour.

"I haven't got all day…" she began sarcastically, but he cut her off before she could come out with anything else sarky.

"The landlord said the attic room upstairs is off limits. There are hardly any floorboards up there, so if you want to avoid a nasty accident, just don't go looking for it…"

She raised those arched eyebrows again.

"I tend to study quite late, at least until two am, so please keep the music low, at least by nine. I have eight o'clock seminars on Thursday and Friday so try not to make too much noise, especially on Thursday night."

He could tell she was losing her patience, a little dimple had formed in her cheek, and he could tell she was grinding her teeth, ever so slowly.

"What's special about Thursday?" she enquired, keeping her voice sweet. He blinked a couple of times.

"Well…students tend to go out 'nightclubbing' on that night," he said, matter-of-factly.

She scoffed at him, pushing past, and started to go down the stairs.

"I don't think you'll find I'm that kind of girl," she spoke, feet slamming down on each step.

"Not any more at least…" She had muttered the last part, but he had ears of a bat and had heard, staring down at her, watching her leave the house, the front door slamming as hard as it possibly could.

I wonder what kind of girl you are then, he thought.

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When she had finished her shopping in Tescos, pushing past people somewhat tiredly with her trolley, becoming agitated quickly when she couldn't find what she wanted, when someone was standing for around ten minutes in front of a specific product she needed to reach out for…eventually she started becoming rude, and pushing past people, so much that she received a sigh, a roll of the eyes and a 'All you had to say was excuse me.'

Maybe that was true, but she was in no mood for it. She hated food shopping with a sincere passion. After a while, her frustration became misery, once her tiresome mind reminded her that she was utterly alone, and that the future looked as uninviting as a high, dark mountain that was impossible to climb. The darkness outside, highlighting some of the town's lights, highlighted the impenetrable sadness that wore down on her shoulders, reminding that she was entirely alone in this cold, that every other single human being she had known in her life had now not even spared a thought towards her.

Not even her mother, whom she always had been close to. The other students, she had known, would all be carrying on with their lives, their wonderful lives, filled with every bit of happiness and satisfaction. Catching a taxi back, feeling the light patter of rain again as she exited the vehicle and struggled with her food bags to the dank terraced house, which was her new home, probably, she felt forever, she ran a bath as soon as she stepped inside.

It was her method of healing. A bath.

Ignoring the grubbiness of the room, the grit that sat in-between the tiles, the dirt that clung to the plumbing pipes and the cobwebs scattered around the ceiling, she poured in a new bottle of bubble bath, and sat on the toilet, waiting patiently. It took a while to fill.

Not bothering to wonder whether her strange housemate was in, she went downstairs to make herself a cup of Earl Grey tea and grab some chocolate she bought herself while in the supermarket. Despite the dirtiness of the house, everything seemed to be immaculate; everything was in order.

She opened up the cupboards and found the crockery all stacked up neatly. She began to put some of her food away; briefly looking in his cupboard, seeing whatever little was in there, was also neatly stacked.

Briefly looking around, she put quickly put everything that was his upside down. The sugar, the South-African ground coffee, the OXO cubes…

She shut the door as soon as she heard a slam of a door, smirking a little to herself. Seeing it was just next door, she re-arranged everything in the cupboards as well.

Grace wasn't even sure why she was doing this. Antagonising her new, rude housemate certainly wasn't a wise move.

When she heard the front door slam, she managed to stifle a chuckle. However, the voice did not belong to the guy; it belonged to a young woman, around her age, perhaps a little older.

Curious, she moved closer to the door, trying to listen in, but all the noise the woman was making was just small giggles. Pouring milk slowly into her tea, adding the lovely large amount she was used to, she heard footsteps, and felt a small cruel jump of joy in her stomach, knowing he was going to find his little neat heaven ruined.

Devastated. A catastrophe.

Grace was beside the fridge when the young woman stepped in, her eyes wide, taking in the smallness of the kitchen, pressing her hands together. She was average height, and had very large heavily-lidded eyes. Her dirty blonde hair hung down in wisps.

Grace felt like taking on a position of vulgarity and turned away from the girl not bothering to greet her. She supposed this woman was the girlfriend of the odd housemate, and she nearly wanted to applaud the woman for choosing such a male specimen. She heard his heavier footsteps, while picking up her scorching cup of tea, Minnie Mouse decorating the outside of the mug.

When she took up the large chocolate bar in her hands as well, turning around, she was caught in the sharp, deathly gaze of Jonathan Crane.

"You must be the new housemate," spoke the blonde girl.

Her voice was quite high, and it wasn't northern. It had an American twinge to it, also. Thrown in the deep end, were you Jonathan, she thought sarcastically. Needed a bit of home to get you fitted in?

She smiled, quite genuinely, obviously not realising Grace's apparent rudeness.

Crane was just staring at her.

He knew something was up; she had done something, for there was a slight smirk on her face. Definitely something to infuriate him. He was sure of it, he knew she was off from the moment he had met her.

"Yeah," she replied, quite bluntly. "Yeah, the new kid on the block…"

The girl now sensed the hostility coming from Grace, and gave a sheepish smile. She decided to introduce herself anyway, giving a bright smile, and Grace felt her hostility drop for a while, realising she was simply being rude to the woman because of the man behind her.

Man, boy, guy. She wasn't even sure how old he was, she was guessing perhaps a bit older than her.

"Studying for a Masters in Criminology, unlike Jonathan here, he's doing a PhD. Clever shit; I don't think I'll go that far…"

He attempted to pull an amused smile, but it faded after five seconds. So he was older than her. Grace swirled the tea in her hands, desperate for her chocolate and healing time.

"Ah that's interesting….so what you studying?" she asked him.

He replied instantly, without a bat of an eyelash.

"Psychopharmacology."

She raised an eyebrow. That was a bit of a mouthful. Sounded smart-arse-ish, and she had no desire whatsoever to bother asking what it was.

Suddenly she suddenly felt a little inadequate among them, and wasn't sure why she was afraid to say what she was studying. The girl Dina already asked the dreaded question before Grace could finish her anxious thoughts.

"Postgrad Fine Art."

Dina let an 'Oh' escape her mouth, and she tried to nod enthusiastically, before giving another smile, rather attractive dimples showing in her cheeks.

They both bid their goodbye, before turning off, and she could hear his door slam.

There was a lot of door slamming that happened in this house. She stood there for a minute, her mouth open, the mug and chocolate bar still in her hands. She walked down the hallway, and up the stairs, passing his room very slowly, hearing very quiet voices. Shrugging, hoping she wasn't going to hear the humorous sounds produced by coitus, she walked into the bathroom, her bath still running.

It was at the correct temperature and height. Stripping herself of her clothes, she climbed into the glorious, wonderful smelling bath, and tried to heal herself, sipping her tea, and snapping a bit off the chocolate bar.

It was going to be an interesting semester. Little did she know.


	5. Down to Earth

The first art session was at nine o' clock in the morning.

She was looking forward to opening her oil paint bottles and sniff the linseed oil. Pick the dried paint from the brush bristles. Wipe her hands on her little apron, and paint away until the daylight changed and moved and she couldn't concentrate anymore.

She wondered what the art studio would look like. It was a very early art session and they lasted two hours, three days of the week. Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Monday was a nine am, Wednesday was a two pm and Friday was at midday.

She was happy with those times apart from the nine on a Monday. Bleak, but motivational. She pondered how she would have to find a job. She could never find one in her undergraduate days, and she always had the money she earned during summer to help her. Sometimes her parents would keep her afloat, but she never liked them to help her out too much, only when she was in dire need.

She was exhausted, both mentally and physically, but the insistent banging she heard two doors away down the small corridor had kept her awake.

Gawd…he was fucking her hard, she thought, reaching over the bed, for her ciggies on the wooden stool, and lighting one.

She only smoked when particularly stressed, and this certainly was a stressful situation. She also hoped he smelt it, and got pissed off.

The girl was not the most vocal girl she had heard in her life, but she certainly reached the top ten. The noise simply wouldn't cease. Sighing loudly, Grace stomped to her door, and padded down the hallway in her bare feet, oversized New York Yankees t-shirt and small pyjama shorts, her fag hanging out her mouth.

She stood outside his door for a second, hearing the girl's groans, pleading for him to go a little deeper. She couldn't hear him at all, wondering if he was even there. The groans were almost scream-like. What on earth was going on in there, she wondered.

Was he sacrificing her? Was she having a séance, and became demonically possessed?

"Oh for Christ's sake," Grace murmured, taking the cigarette out her mouth and suddenly pounded on the door very, very hard, her hand thumping in pain once she took it away.

The noises ceased for a moment.

"OI! Could you keep the primeval noises to a minimum? Any more and the zoo keeper will be around. I've got a nine am in the fucking morning!"

She turned away, taking a drag of her cigarette, blowing out, feeling sufficiently satisfied, her demons vanishing momentarily. The noise had not continued, and she managed to get another few hours of peaceful sleep before her radio went off, blasting music in the room.

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Brushing the little knots out of her hair, seeing the circles under her eyes, she prepared herself for the day. She ended up having a terrible dream about her addiction, which had set her off at an odd angle for the morning.

At around eight o' clock, she had her breakfast, and packed her art utensils in her holdall. Most art students had their utensils in proper art cases, but she had never bothered, seeing the holdall was far better than all those expensive cases which never had a lot of room in them to fit entirely everything. She rather hoped she would not bump into either Crane or Dina this morning, doubting they'd be up. She's probably recovering, she mused sarcastically.

However, Grace could not be more wrong.

Apparently her housemate was an early riser, for he was making coffee when she reached the kitchen at half past seven in the morning, the cold tiles of the kitchen bringing her into reality. He was tapping his long fingers on the surface, his back to her, the kettle boiling when she entered, clad only in her shorts and over-sized t-shirt, stifling a yawn.

_Boy I bet she must be hurting._

He was dressed in a thick navy dressing gown, and his hair was a little muzzy.

_Yep._

She cluttered about, yawning properly this time. She could have been this Dina girl, but he still didn't turn around, and he nearly made her jump when he did. She poured corn flakes into her ceramic blue bowel, picking out a flake and munching on it.

His face had a rather spectacular look of distaste on it, as he stood there, clutching his steaming mug of coffee. She pushed past him to re-boil the kettle, sensing there was enough water in there.

"Morning," she chirped at him cheerily, although she was far from cheery.

She got out a Twinnings Breakfast tea bag and popped into her Minnie Mouse mug. She felt his stare pierce her, like a pin to a balloon. Any more staring and she'd drop the kettle in terrible self-consciousness.

She knew what a mess she appeared like in the morning.

"You know, and it stated _clearly, _that there was to be no smoking in the house," he hissed, too angrily for her liking.

She sighed resignedly, poured milk into her tea, then in her corn flakes, put the cap back on the milk bottle, and turned to him.

"And if there could be such a thing as 'house rules', perhaps loud sex at three in the morning would be abolished."

His light eyes, for the briefest moment flickered, and she snorted, shaking her head.

She really felt like antagonising him today, one; because she was dog-tired, had a nine o' clock, two, because she had a splitting headache as a result from her nightmare, and three because his girlfriend made sounds that was a cross between a hyena and a whale.

"I'm going to let the landlord know about this," he seethed, trying to keep a calm composure.

She wondered if it would break any time soon. He seemed like he was constantly on edge about something, that or he had a large poker stuck up his arse.

"Well, by all means, call the landlord, hypocrite. You were telling me about making noise about coming back from a night-out, automatically presuming I go to clubs," Grace snapped back at him, snatching her mug and cereal bowl off the surface, turning her back on him and storming back up to her room.

Dina had her head poked around the door, her sweet little face pouting, a frown buried in her forehead. She analysed what Grace was wearing briefly, and then pushed past her to rush down the stairs.

Grace made sure to slam her bedroom door very hard before she sat down on her bed and munched on the corn flakes very loudly. She felt like throwing her mug across the room, and then realised it would be a tragic waste of tea.

When she put the hoops in her ears, slipped her woollen coat on, and grabbed her holdall, she thumped down the stairs, seeing him and Dina at the foot of the stairs. She halted a little before continuing, her bag shuffling against her side. She supposed he had told his little girlfriend about the ordeal of the morning, but Grace pulled a bright smile at the both of them, flying past, and exiting the house.

The nasty gaze he had sent her before she left would not remove its image from her mind.

It chilled her, somewhat.

It soon was washed away when she spent ten minutes looking on her map to find the way to campus without becoming lost.

She was unused to Yorkshire weather, forgetting it was much colder, but not quite as bleak. Why was this town, Feston, a small respectable English town so damp, dark and unwelcoming?

She spent five to ten minutes walking down the long terrace of houses, all bay-windowed; some with stairs going to a basement flat like hers, some without. Some curtains were drawn, so were wide open, and she had a glance into student rooms. One with a poster of a naked woman.

One with a workout machine of some kind. Some with pretty vases filled with colourful flowers. Some were dull with mountains of papers and books, very heavy-looking books. One window was aligned with empty beer cans and wine bottles, as if for decoration or celebration.

Many houses had peeling paint, or were in need of new brickwork. A couple of bicycles were chained to the fences that surrounded the front of the houses, many of the fences made of brick, often ramshackle.

The sky, surprisingly enough for this part of the country, was clear, the sun casting a hazy glow over the little student houses. It was a lot colder without cloud cover however. She'd rather it be colder and sunny, than put up with the usual cloudy misty which often cast a depressing dimness on every corporeal existence. She had to pass through many of these streets to get to her university, which she had not even visited previously, only researched it extensively on the internet.

She saw as a shortcut, there was a little park to cross before entering the University through the back, and was humbled by the nature that surrounded her. It was as if she was briefly cast away from the dank town into another part of the country, like the Lake District.

The land dipped around her and rolled into the distance. Misty fog hung above the grass. It was extremely cold, for September. This year was going to bring a harsh winter. There were few puddles on the ground, and some people were walking their dogs, throwing balls and the dog sprinting off. The sky was large and open above her, as she crossed through the park, reaching the back gates of the University.

Other students, curiously looking at one another as she passed them, lugged along their heavy bags.

Some walked together, chatting away, some walked alone. She didn't understand how people had that much energy to talk in the morning. Up a steep hill, she walked pass several plain buildings and a car park, where the staff and few students exited their warm cars. She heard a sharp slapping, and glanced above to see crows flapping their wings, trying to find a safe branch on the oak trees that littered the sky above her.

Atop the hill, was when she finally entered campus. 'University of Feston, Yorkshire' was printed boldly on an erect sign just beside an old, crumbly-looking building. She crossed what seemed to be a courtyard, her eyes taking in every crevice, person, branch, even cracks on the cobbled stones beneath her feet. The courtyard was surrounded by fairly old stone buildings, around two hundred years old, and to her right stood a small clock tower.

The stones were of a colour that closely resembled the Somerset town's, Bath, own architecture.

The clock tower struck, and her heart clenched; it was already nine o' clock, and she was going to be late. The path beyond the courtyard led her to the main campus of the university, old and modern buildings merged together. She half ran down the long pathway that ran alongside the buildings, until she came to the junction of a road that entered the university.

Across the road, and into an incredibly ugly-looking sixties building with brown brickwork and heavily blackened window frames; this was the Arts Centre.

The campus had been teeming with people, young and old alike, just like the buildings. She had been nearly run over by a couple of bicycles, and two boys, most likely undergraduates, had been messing around and nearly knocked her off her feet. She had to play a game of dodgems, she felt when passing through campus, but was relieved when she entered her building.

The art room, one of many, was not difficult to find, and upon entering, she was greeted with glorious light that fell down from a large window in the ceiling of the room.

The room was sparse; on one side of the room was a large space filled with easels, and little wooden tables that were covered in old splodges of paint, from the work of past students. On the other side, were more tables, and large cupboards, which were for storage. There were at least three to four sinks dotted around the room, the wall above it dirtied with paint.

There were more windows to the back of the room, and beyond them were hundreds of bicycle racks. She saw students come and go, parking and lifting their bikes away. She found she had been stood there, staring with her mouth open, before she was brought out of her daydreaming by a jovial, warm but loud voice.

"Hello, my dear! Welcome, welcome to graduate Fine Art! Take a seat with an easel…"

She turned to see a frail woman, with a terrible posture, grin at her. The woman was so badly round-shouldered it looked as if you could balance a full tea cup on her back and it wouldn't spill.

She was covered from head to toe with an excessive abundance of jewellery, and her frazzled greying hair was pulled back slightly with a speckled bandana. She wore a most (vulgar, Grace thought) colourful skirt that covered her feet and a little sheepskin gilet.

Her spidery, leathery hands were covered with henna patterns and silvery rings. Grace thought she was the most interesting person she had ever met. She wanted to paint her. Enlightened, she nodded, smiled and sat down to a rather grumpy looking girl on her left, and a skinny, frightened looking boy on her right.

"Right!" spoke the lady, clapping her hands, her jewellery jangling.

Her accent was tinged with something Grace could not place, but it certainly was not northern.

"My name is Heather Lugh…" She had spoken for half an hour about the sessions, about the course, about herself, about art, about paintbrushes, about the university, about students, before Grace finally began to nod off, her eyes tired, her face sagging.

"Oh boy….Thirty minutes in, and I've already created a Picasso of her..." spoke a deep sing-song Welsh voice, and Grace jolted herself awake.

She glanced around the room quickly, forgetting where she was briefly. Heather Lugh was still talking, her eyes still owlishly gazing round at the students with great enthusiasm, her jewellery still jangling as she swept her arms around like that of a windmill.

Grace turned her head to find the source of the voice, and noticed the grumpy girl, drawing on a small sketchpad. Her chin was resting on the palm of her right hand, and she drew with her left, looking entirely displeased, and bored.

"Dropped off. What've I missed?" Grace whispered, taking a better look at the girl's drawing.

It indeed looked like Picasso-inspired. It was pretty good, Grace thought. She glanced down at her holdall, tempted to get out her own pencils and sketchpad. The girl smirked, her long straight blonde hair swishing to a side. Grace noticed she had various piercings; lip, nose, a small piercing to the side of her eye (a microdermal, she surmised, having one in her wrist a few years ago), and a somewhat impressive tattoo on her shoulder of a skeleton. Definitely the arty-student, she pondered.

"Nothing except what a rollercoaster of a year this is going to be," replied the girl.

The lecturer now turned her attention to the course at hand.

"Finally…" Grace muttered.

The session ended up with Grace chatting for an hour both to the blonde piercings/tattoo girl, and Heather Lugh.

If anyone could win an Olympic medal for talking, it would be Heather Lugh. The woman could run a marathon and back, talking and talking and still not be satisfied. The last hour she experimented with all her paints. It was merely an introductory lesson.

She sorted out the paints which needed to be thrown out, along with her paintbrushes. She never was consistent with cleaning her equipment, thinking of a friend she knew back at school, who was ever so clean. What is such a thing; a clean artist? She had an apron shoved deep down at the back of her holdall somewhere, and smiled. The girl was packing up her things, a ready-made cigarette in her mouth, her blonde hair slung back in an elastic band by the time Grace had looked up.

Already Grace had felt a weird connection with this girl. She was the sort of person you could tell you had a serious heroin addiction a couple of years ago, and she wouldn't even bat an eyelash. She shuddered to think what Crane would think, if he ever found out.

Which he wouldn't. Ugh…She thought. She had forgotten about him.

"Fuck…need a lighter," muttered the girl, patting her denim jacket pockets.

"You know where the nearest corner shop is? The campus is tiny, but I doubt I can find anything with all the pissy undergraduates pissing their pissy freshers' spirit of youth everywhere."

Grace had to stifle a childish laugh, and she smiled as she put her holdall on her shoulder carefully.

"Yeah, passed one earlier on. I'll show you."

"Need a roll?"

"Nah, got one," returned Grace, and the two girls exited the Arts Centre, and walked down the main pathway of campus.

Once getting their lighters, biscuits, nick-nacks and bits of food from the corner shop, the girl, who named herself as Lisa Redmond, parked her bum on a picnic table, opposite a café, in front of the Humanities Building, as it stated.

Few students were sat down, most of them undergraduates trying to find their allocated places. The girl lit her cigarette and lit Grace's also.

"You local, then?" began Lisa huskily, blowing her smoke out.

She had unusually large lips, noticed Grace. Her nails were chipped and black, and her skin looked like it had suffered over the years, but was glowing healthily now.

Grace felt somewhat envious of this chic girl she had met in her class. But she sensed perhaps this girl was just as broken as she was.

"I'm from York originally, but lived in Surrey since I was seventeen. You?"

"Caerphilly. Wales. Shithole, if you ask me."

Grace tried not to laugh again, but Lisa noticed and laughed for her, the smoke rushing out of her nose. The girls chatted about their respective hometowns for a while, Grace sensing the oncoming misery of her impending future and her doomed present.

Her family had not contacted her at all, since she had been here. Still, they needed time to heal, and so did she.

They stopped their nattering for a while, in contemplative mutual but comfortable silence, gazing around at the throng of students.

Grace began to get the feeling that she might just be content here.

But her feeling felt somewhat crushed when, among the crowds of people, stood Jonathan Crane, his pinched pale face severe looking, as Dina walked beside him, somewhat jovially. No one should look that jovial beside him, she remarked in her mind.

"Oh Christ…" she muttered, catching Lisa out of her reverie.

Lisa blew her smoke out distractedly, pinching a chocolate HobNob biscuit out of Grace's packet on the table.

"What?" she asked, her face calm, laid-back as ever.

Grace nearly prayed he would not see her, the same going for Dina as well. He had a somewhat large black satchel on his shoulder, which appeared as if it was stuffed with heavy books. He carried a dark laptop case in his other hand. He seemed impartial to the cold, and only wore a light suit jacket.

He looked like he was going to an interview, in his smart, charcoal-grey suit and shiny black brogues.

He must teach here sometimes, she pondered.

"My precocious, weird, to-be-psycho housemate," she replied without thinking.

Lisa chuckled softly, munching loudly on the biscuit, crumbs flying and dropping simultaneously.

"A tank top?" spluttered Lisa sardonically. "What is he, a lecturer?"

Grace's eyes slowly drifted down to his dark green sleeveless sweater.

"Nope, just taking some snot-nosed PhD in psyche…psyche...psycho-pharma…pharma…lology…"

Lisa didn't bat at eyelash, who stared at the short girl bouncing alongside him.

He was completely ignoring her.

"Sounds snot-nosed," replied Lisa, frowning at Dina.

Dina managed to catch sight of them staring at her with their mouths open, the packet of open HobNobs on the table, their rolled drooping fags in between their fingers.

She pulled a smile of delight, tapping Crane briefly on the shoulder, bidding her goodbye. He just nodded and strolled off, his long legs taking him quickly out of view.

"Fuck…his hyena girlfriend…" Grace muttered again in exasperation. Lisa shrieked out in laughter, dropping her cigarette.

This didn't faze Dina who was continuing to walk towards them, her chest rising and falling quickly.

"Heads up…" began Lisa, and she raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Wow, she has got pert breasts."

"Hi, guys!" breathed Dina heavily, sounding as if she had just ran to campus instead of walking.

They both replied with an 'Alright.'

"How are you? Wanna grab a coffee, if you're not busy?"

Clearly Grace Gilmartin had nothing better to do, but she felt her stomach drop to her arse.

Lisa was trying her utmost best not to laugh, and she picked herself up from the picnic bench, putting her bag over her shoulder, her face screwed up in her attempt.

Dina was waiting there, the smile still plastered on her face. She had glistening white teeth, as most Americans seemed to have.

Reluctantly she agreed, and Dina mouthed a 'great' and turned to face the café opposite them.

"Cross your heart and hope to die my friend," murmured Lisa, patting her on the shoulder, and sauntered off, plugging her earphones from her music player into her ears. Grace attempted a smile at the beaming Dina, and went to have a coffee. She didn't even like coffee.

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Provoking Crane, and probably to an extreme, was more than just a hazardous action but Grace Gilmartin was hardly one to go gentle into that good night.

She'd pissed him off beyond belief, because by the time she returned home, which was around four in the afternoon, she heard male voices coming from the kitchen, the deeper, Northern-English sounding voice belonging to her landlord.

The other belonged to her 'pyscho-housemate', who was hardly saying a word, and when he did, it came out in that usual, raspy style that sent an unpleasant shiver down her back.

Deciding to face the music, she dumped her holdall beside the staircase, walked down the tiny hallway, and burst through the kitchen, seeing the landlord. He was short, bald, and had an impressive beer-belly on him.

He looked fairly displeased, but it was nothing compared to what she saw behind him; Crane did not look displeased, but his fairly impassive face was a potential dagger to her own indifferent façade.

He had shrugged off his suit-jacket, and stood in his sleeveless sweater, shirt rolled up to his elbows.

Careless mistake, she saw, for as an artist she had an incredibly observant eye, and she saw there was a rather nasty burn mark on the underside of his arm.

"You must be Grace…Gilmartin?" The landlord began.

"That would be me."

She nearly added a 'sir' in sarcasm, but decided it would be an unwise move.

Jonathan just kept his eyes unblinkingly on her. It was beginning to unnerve her, as if he was scanning her; seeing her naked both physically and mentally. Creep, she thought. Little did she know that Crane probably epitomised the word 'creep'.

"You were told specifically that you were not to smoke in the house," began the landlord, who had introduced himself impatiently as Steve Hobbs.

The thought of her crushed HobNobs came into her mind; they were right at the bottom of her holdall.

Steve was still snapping away at her like a crocodile, and Jonathan's impossibly blue eyes were attempting to drown her.

"There is a provided ash tray; you smoke on the balcony, but not in the house. If I receive another phone call about you smoking, I will remove you. That clear?"

She thought his attitude was somewhat off, but it probably suited Crane, who nearly pulled a smirk at her.

She felt a blush creep to her cheeks. She felt like she was being scolded like a child and a flare of anger rose in her chest like a heated lion.

Steve left after several moments, having explained to Crane about the heating, which was going to be repaired within a week. He asked if everything had been working alright, and Crane replied quickly everything was fine, his death glare mask still on.

Steve, somewhat unnerved by his two strange tenants, left as swiftly as he had come, climbing into his white van and driving off, leaving a cloud of brown smoke.

Grace clicked her tongue against the roof her mouth, tapping her fingers on the granite-looking surface of the counter.

He stared at her briefly before moving away from the side, and making a move to leave.

"I've known a lot of clever arseholes in my time, but this just takes the bloody biscuit, which you've taken pleasure pissing all over on!"

Today just seemed to be a biscuit-themed day, she thought. Hobs and Nobs, and Steve bloody Hobbs.

He stopped, his shoulders hunching forward, hands in his trouser pockets and span around to face her.

He was silent for a few moments, but barked out a high-pitched laugh. He had, oddly, straight and small, attractive teeth.

Then his face fell dramatically, and he walked away, his shoes hard on the tiled floor. She heard him barely walk upstairs. However, he had not walked up to his room. She'd strangely memorised the sounds of the doors in the house since they slammed so often.

She heard the footsteps go further, and the trapdoor to the attic had been opened, she presumed, and slammed hard.

An eerie feeling of displacement and trepidation crept into her blood, as she heard the familiar hum of the refrigerator and the tapping of water from the tap.

Forgetting his somewhat eccentric, hostile behaviour, she filled the kettle, deciding she'd start a bit of drawing this afternoon.


	6. A Sense of Darkness

Grace, seeing Lisa two days later, decided to recount her story about Crane to her.

The class were busy painting the same thing on a small blank canvas, but Lisa and Grace whispered to each other quietly, trying not to distract the others. The day before, Grace had slept until one in the afternoon, cursing herself afterwards.

She could see the afternoon sun in the sky, and thought of all the people that had been up for hours before her. She needed desperately to get back into her jogs, but it seemed impossible, at this rate. She could hardly get to sleep in the house, and the fact that Crane had not come down from the attic all night had both agitated and worried her somewhat.

She had not seen him at all yesterday, and had begun to feel somewhat lonely within her chilled, mouldy student house, without anyone to talk to. She felt like her life was going nowhere, yet at the same time she convinced herself that she had come far enough. She had finished her undergraduate course, despite all the trouble she had been through.

Despite spending the last three years at home, hardly seeing any friends, being left behind by her own generation, working a mediocre job as a cleaner, she had come a long way.

She had completed the difficult process of finishing her Postgraduate application, and her applications for various scholarships and loans to fund her. She had been rejected by a couple, late for one, and her last hope, one that the university supplied itself, had accepted her at the last minute.

That night she had decided to get a few bits from the nearby corner shop, including, for some reason unknown to her, condoms. What the hell did she need them for?

Did she really want another someone in her life? She hadn't given relationships a thought for a few years now, and the only interactions she had had with men over the last three years were failed dates and drunken kisses that never meant anything.

Still, she plonked them in her basket and waddled over to the tills. An acne ridden young man served her, calling her 'darling' as she shoved her things into her plastic bag, taking his time with the Durex, and the Tampax, which she also shoved into her basket.

Might as well on the topic of the entire reproduction process.

Forgetting to bring an umbrella, forgetting this was the north, she sauntered home, becoming soaking wet, her hair plastered to her cheeks, and the back of her woollen coat sticking to her back. Her converses squelched. While she would normally wrinkle her nose at this unpleasant sensation, indifference, in its entirety, swamped her, like a rabid kind of emotion.

Except this was most terrible emotion she could feel. She burst into her dank, dark house, sopping wet and trailing water. She further procrastinated, not wanting to sit in her lonely room, and walked, hair still sopping all the way to the laundrette.

She heard they sometimes served tea and coffee, so she picked up her worn copy of Coetzee's _In The Heart of the Country. _She always read it, wondering why it was her favourite, when the low period hit. It had hit.

What she was expecting to find a load of elderly women with pink lipstick and fluffed permed hair.

What she was not expecting find was Jonathan Crane, who was stood there, somewhat impatiently, almost having a staring competition with the washing machine in front of him.

Standing hesitantly in front of the laundrette, the rain still hammering, she pondered on whether risking going in, facing his patronising stare and his hostility, further lowering her mood, or return to the house, defeated and washing still smelly and musty. Deciding she wouldn't let him get to her, she walked in.

She tried to sneak in, but it was so quiet and the door clanked loudly.

Few people were there. She clutched the sides of her laundry basket tightly, a bead of moisture from the rain run down her temple.

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He watched the clothes he wore day in, day out, spin round and round the machine, stopping for a brief moment, soap sloshing about in the water, and then continuing its cycle.

He was deep within his thoughts, lost in a haze of dark contemplation. His thoughts about his course. About the damp country, seemingly no different from damp Gotham, other than everything seemed to be much smaller; from the roads, to the cars, to the meals and the houses. He thought about the attic room.

His cold hands clenched together, and his headache slowly eased itself. He'd been working on his masterpiece of a thesis for half the day, sat in front of his laptop, the other half he had been lecturing small groups of postgraduates who were studying psychology.

He'd returned home just over an hour ago, checking the attic, then coming back down the stairs, listening. He stopped by her door, trying to hear whether she was there or not. She was. He could hear her irritating music and her feet thump-thump-thumping around.

His thoughts grew to his experim-

She barged in, soaked to the skin, clutching her laundry basket, banging around loudly and clumsily as usual, and he was brought out of his deep meditation, almost abruptly.

Rudely.

The door slammed noisily against the wall behind, and everyone in the room stood to attention. She ignored him as she walked in, but he fully well knew she was aware of his presence.

He stood there, casually; his hands in his pockets, and turned his eyes away from her, pretending he wasn't interested. But he couldn't be more entranced.

He saw the reflection of her on the large washing machine windows, her cheeks rosy from the cold dampness of outside. He saw that her movements were slow, jerky, and a small dimple was in her top left hand cheek again. She was agitated.

Her eyes were watery, he observed, as she piled all her washing into the machine. Thinking the better of it, she pulled off her soggy coat, and shoved it into the machine also, having to push hard. She shakily pulled out her detergent and fabric conditioner and poured them into the machine's drawer.

Slamming it hard, she slotted two coins in, and then stood back, unsure what to do with herself. He wanted to cackle in laughter at her. His stare was clearly unsettling her, for her movements were becoming jerkier and jerkier.

"Eh Doris, you got that tenner I lent you the other day?"

"Yeah, love, just in a tick, I got all me tights tied up in this big ball 'ere…bloody Nora!"

"The trick is to tie knots in 'em separately before you wash 'em…"

His eyes flickered and rolled impatiently at the sound of the elderly women who were behind him talking in that most dreadful, annoying vernacular, that the Gilmartin girl seemed to talk in as well.

His fists were still clenched in his pockets, brushing familiar rough, coarse material…

Oh how he would love to-

"DORIS! Oh my gawd, come look at this! Look at this…"

The Gilmartin girl seemed to have come to her senses, and brushed past him, giving him a knowing smile. He couldn't help but follow her round with his eyes, as she headed towards the small café that was at the end of the laundrette. A couple of tables covered in red checked cloth sat in front of a small counter, with a blackboard advertising various foods he had never heard of, nor would he ever eat.

She ordered two large cups of tea, and sat them down on the table, and waved her hand over at him. Did she really think he would join her soaked person, at a probably dirtied table, to sit with her, and drink insipid tea?

"Oh come on, Jonathan, I'm not going to bite."

Her behaviour stunned him; he couldn't help but feel it. The way she pronounced his name, the way it rolled off her tongue, sent the hairs on his arms to stand up on end, and he felt a cool quiver of rage. His intense dislike for her was still the predominant emotion. The other people were staring at him, waiting for his reaction, and desperately clutching at the material in his pocket, he forced himself to move over to her.

All her clothes which had been beneath her coat were also soaked. He sat down mechanically, limbs hardly stirring, eyes not moving from her face.

She was wearing black-rimmed square glasses, for some reason, and they steamed up as she sipped her tea. He looked down at her, through his own glasses, thinly wired and silver-framed compared to hers.

He did not touch the tea. He thought he could see the germs on the rim of the mug.

Her kind behaviour had sickened him. Where was that simpering, jumpy girl that had snuck in about five minutes ago?

"You seem tense," he spoke impersonally.

She looked up from her mug, and raised her arched eyebrows at him.

"Maybe it's 'cos you're not drinking your tea."

He continued to stare at her, eyes roving over her briefly. Her skinny collarbones stuck out, emphasised by the boat-necked shirt she was wearing. He could see her black bra showing slightly through the wetness of the shirt.

He saw, as he moved a centimetre closer, little purple pin prick marks just around her collarbone. His eyes drifted to her neck, and there were more of them, dotted everywhere. She had looked away from him, not sensing his intense study. He wanted, no _needed_, to see her arms, to find out, fully.

He was not stupid. He knew she didn't sense him as such. What she didn't know was he was an expertise in psychology and reading people like open books. He knew the only way for her to pull the sleeves up of her shirt was for her to feel warm, hot even.

So he could only do what he wanted through manipulation, subtle at that. She had drunk her tea quite quickly; her cheeks still rosy, heightened further by its warmth.

He pushed his mug towards her, his fingers brushing purposely, almost seductively, against her hands.

He gave her one of his thin-lipped smiles. He knew it didn't suit him, he probably looked garishly vulgar in the mirror, but it seemed to have worked on her. Her cheeks did not turn any redder, but she grabbed the tea, and drunk it quickly down nervously.

"You seem to like tea, a lot…" he remarked slowly, eyes roving over her again.

She was beginning to become severely uncomfortable under his gaze.

"I can never get used to it," he said, conversationally, hating it, still pulling a good-humoured look.

She finally, now blushing, pushed the sleeves up her arms unaware of her actions, as she gazed sheepishly around the room.

"I can't live without it. At least five cups a day…"

He bluntly ignored what she was saying and stared closely at her arms.

There was an incredible ugly purple mark on the inside of her elbow. It was a scar, but it was discoloured, and shaped like a burst vein. It was about ten centimetres long.

He glanced over to the other arm, which was not as bad, but there were still, like her neck, tiny purple dots, covering the inside of her elbow, all the way down to her wrist. He made a great point of staring at her arms, until she sensed him doing it, and then frowned.

_It'll take her forever, Johnny. _

But it didn't. It had happened before.

She didn't gasp in shock, but roughly pulled the hems of her sleeves down. A great line enveloped along her forehead, one that was of anger. She was trying to mask her fear. Was that what it was, she was afraid of him finding out, yet it had only taken a matter of a few days…that was a revelation.

He clicked his tongue against his teeth in approval, unclenching his tense fists for a moment, but his hand did not remove itself from the rough material deep in his pocket.

She pushed herself away from the table, and strolled to the door. He stood up, watching her every move, from stomping to the exit, flinging open the door, and rushing off into the rain. Sweet manipulation, he thought to himself, pleased.

She is pathetic and will break, he guessed, in a month or so. He could sense her low emotions and desperation.

"Scared her off, have you?" one of the elderly ladies spoke to him, somewhat jokingly.

He heard, but smiled, still staring after Gilmartin.

"Not yet…" he murmured, so she hadn't heard him.

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Grace spent at least an entire day, which was Thursday, avoiding him.

Him.

She couldn't even manage to bring herself to speak his name, even in her head. His name, although both names were fairly common, had an eerie resonance to it.

It was difficult to avoid him as it was her day off, but she managed to get herself out of bed, washed, dressed, and onto campus without seeing him.

He probably was closed up in his room, the attic or in a seminar. It could've been likely that she might have seen him on campus; even so, her plan so far was to ignore him. Her loneliness had somewhat increased throughout the day as she sat in the arts centre, where several rooms had been allocated for art students to do their work if they were not attending lectures or seminars.

As a Postgrad art student she didn't really have such things as lectures. Those were the old days.

She saw all the other students, again mostly undergraduates, going about in little groups, smiles bright on their faces, chatting noisily over each other. She wondered where Lisa was. No-nonsense Lisa who'd probably have Crane's bollocks from the start. She only wished she could grow more of a shell. It seemed impossible to achieve, these days, from all the people she had been surrounded by. Disappointments, now her parents fitted into that category.

The few friends she used to meet up with over the past three years, had no idea that she was up north in Feston, doing a postgraduate. She imagined they'd be pleased for her, knowing she had come a long way.

She suspected something about Crane.

She sensed that he was going to use the tiny titbit of information that he had found out about her and use it against her. He might spread rumours about her, telling his girlfriend Dina, who would also natter to her own friends. She imagined pretty little innocent Dina with lots of friends, a loving family and much going for her.

She only felt she had this course going for her; that was it. Grace began to feel a sudden, unpleasant intense jealousy of Dina.

She also sensed that he was trying to assert his control over her by telling her not to smoke. He had caught her, a day ago, before the laundrette trip, smoking by the back door, with it open.

It had been raining, and she purposely remembered to be diligent by using the ashtray, and spraying a can of room-spray around the kitchen. Hoping he wouldn't smell it, but he did and the next thing she was cornered in the kitchen like a mouse by a cat.

His way of talking to her angered her at first, but she simply let it go after a while. It was no use getting worked up over him, she told herself.

Lisa had briefly popped in to say hello, complaining about her upcoming STI test, slacking off some 'dickhead'.

She said she was quite worried about the results. She glanced at Grace, watching closely to see her reaction, afraid of her response but to be honest Grace Gilmartin couldn't be less judgemental. Lisa seemed to be a saviour in this little dank town, a town which Grace had not even explored yet.

All she knew was that it had a small medieval town centre, with a supermarket, and a beautifully built church at the core. She remembered she had brought her camera, which was shoved somewhere deep in the inner-pockets of her holdall. Perhaps Saturday was a good day to go walking and snapping photographs.

She hadn't done anything like that in a long time.

Grace decided to go into a carping match to keep it level with Lisa, sensing she needed it, and complained, for ten whole minutes, about her impertinent housemate. She probably exaggerated, creating him into more of a monster than he really was, but it was strangely satisfying.

She felt the usual, but unpleasant fulfilment you get from complaining about another human being, particularly one you felt was damaging that moral code you so upheld. That certain satisfaction brought her back to her young teenage years at school. Lisa watched her new friend in fascination, but it was nothing dissimilar she had heard before.

There were all kinds of housemates; pity the girl ended up with the jerk.

"At least it's not a girl. Then you'd be more inclined to do something really awful. I once broke a girl's nose….Yeah, probably something you didn't need to hear."

Grace waved her hand, covering her face with the other as she stifled large gasps of laughter.

Lisa patted her black leather jacket pockets, a filter tip in her mouth.

"You got any baccy? We need a baccy-fill and coffee. Or tea. I have quite a brilliant idea. Actually, it's a fucking _amazing_ idea."

So they trailed to their now favourite designated spot, a bench in a small little garden that was behind the nineteenth-century buildings that surrounded the courtyard. Lisa sipped on coffee while Grace had her usual tea, this time being chai tea, one of her personal favourites.

Lisa told her good idea, but had to stall for she was late for a meeting with her personal tutor. Instead, leaving the plan to another day, Grace walked home, the sun lower in the sky.

She decided she wasn't going to let Crane continue playing his smug dominant card, and further irritated him by making the place messy.

He returned home rather late that night to find the kitchen in disarray. Dirty plates, cutlery and crockery were strewn about thoughtlessly.

There were little bits of food clogging up the plug in the sink. Dirty water with more pieces of food swirling around, sat there smelling. There was a small puddle of water on the floor. A tea-towel's surface was smudged with a charcoal-like substance, probably burnt food. The cooker's exterior was dirtied, around the gas hobs. The counter's surfaces were covered in crumbs, and bits of smeared food.

He felt his skin crawl with fury when he finally stopped analysing the kitchen, and put his thin black briefcase on the floor, in a spot which wasn't in a puddle.

There she was; what he felt like his adversary right at this precise moment, half hanging out on the balcony, smoking a cigarette.

"Alright, Jon," she addressed him somewhat loudly, and bluntly.

He walked over to his cupboard, and saw the usual had happened. What was the matter with this girl? He nearly let his rage overpower him for a mere moment, realising that becoming angry in her presence would be her intended goal, and that she would have won.

He span back round, wiping his thin hands on his suit jacket, adjusting his glasses mechanically. He cleared his throat. He stood there for a good minute, just scrutinising her. She couldn't look at him properly in the eye, because the light from the overhead hanging lamp caught off the lenses.

Then, he walked over to her, making sure he was very close to her, but not close to produce the wrong impression.

After all, he wasn't seducing her for Pete's sake.

"The cupboard, Gilmartin. Cease your monotonous tricks. Also please don't let me remind you about the smoking."

"Cease what, my good sir?"

The brief discomfort she had felt when he was staring at her now vanished. She was really, really pushing his buttons today. He had become recently frustrated with his work, and this woman was the last thing he needed.

He wanted to hit her.

It was a peculiar thought, even for him. He normally stayed away from physical contact, aggressive or not.

"You fully know well what I mean."

She watched his Adam's apple bob a little as he swallowed and cleared his throat again. She made a great notion of frowning and staring around her, presenting a confused façade.

"Ah…the cupboard…Nope, don't know what you're on about."

For the first time, and certainly not for the last time, Jonathan Crane snapped in front of his housemate Grace Gilmartin.

He was silent for a few moments before his outburst, but she could see a vein pumping at the side of his forehead. She glanced at his parted tousled dark hair, thinking he really ought to re-think the length of his slight sideburns.

She was tempted to tell him so, but later on she reflected that it was best she hadn't. He had an abnormally loud, aggressive voice when yelling, for a man so slight and composed, whose voice was often raspy sounding.

"Put...ALL my things back the way they WERE!"

She saw his nostrils flare as he shouted, and a tiny bit of spit found its way onto her cheek. She was tempted to lift a finger to wipe it off, but in that moment when he had yelled viciously at her, her chest clenched tightly in alarm.

Her limbs froze, and her mouth hung open a little in shock.

She was expecting an irritable snap, some condescending remark, but not this.

All her emotions, fear and shock, were clearly evident on her face, and she stood stock still.

Satisfied by her reaction, a pleasant shiver cascading itself down his spine upon seeing the fear on her face, he turned around, picking his briefcase up. He rolled his shoulders forward a couple of times, as if shaking off his previous anger.

"Oh and don't forget to clean the kitchen, Gilmartin. I don't want to come down to find the place in a pig sty ever again."

He walked off.

Her cigarette had gone out, and a tremendous blush crept on her face, even though he was gone. He had shamed her, like she'd been some naughty child.

That was it, she thought.

Lisa's idea was going to take place tomorrow. She really wanted to push the envelope with him. See how far he'd break. The thing was, she didn't ignore his request to clean the kitchen, even if it was her intention to piss him off by creating a mess, or 'pig sty' as he so eloquently named it.

There was a brief moment, where he looked like he was going to hit her; the nostril-flaring, eyes unblinking, the pursing of the lips and the sucking in of his cheeks, body tilting forward for just a moment.

She knew he wouldn't though; he was a respectable PhD student, a researcher and occasional tutor.

He wouldn't want to tarnish that glorious reputation. She was muttering away as she washed the dishes begrudgingly.

The following day, when she was sure Crane had left at the crack of dawn for his eight o'clock tutorial, she phoned Lisa, who said she'd pop round in half an hour. The girl lived on the other side of town, and usually took buses everywhere.

By the time she'd arrived, Grace was still in her dressing gown, smoking by the back door, mug of tea in her left hand. Lisa came round with a variety of biscuits, some Doritos and sauce, Tesco's own mature-cheese, plenty of tobacco, and her favourite collection of CD's.

The last thing she brought in was a huge stack of old newspapers in a carrier bag. She waved her hand dismissively when Grace knitted her brow, confused how she managed to get hold of that many newspapers.

"My housemate, Shit Nate, likes to obsessively collect newspapers."

"Why 'Shit Nate'?"

"He's in a band and he's shit."

"Guess I'm not the only one with a fanatical housemate."

"Yeah but at least Nathan doesn't boss me around like some housewife."

Nodding her head in agreement, the two girls soon played The Buzzcocks and Gang of Four extremely loud, until they put their little plan into action. It wasn't a plan as such, but it was a damn good prank. A popular student prank at that. She had heard worse though.

Her last University was on the coast, and one boy had left his room unlocked for the weekend. His flatmates decided it was a good idea to turn his room into a seaside resort, adding a dead fish into the shower for a finishing effect. The smell was ever present after that, and the sand was eternally stamped into the carpet. Unfortunately, Feston was miles from the coast.

They began with all his food and his utensils in the kitchen.

"It's like playing pass the parcel, or Christmas," commented Lisa.

They wrapped each of his items up in newspaper. Grace found that his room was locked, unfortunately, but they covered his door in newspaper anyway. She didn't think about the attic room, which was locked in any case. They wrapped everything they could find that belonged to him, even his laundry; a couple of pieces were hanging out on the line.

The two women did it, sniggering with laughter the entire time. It took at least three hours, and they got rid of any incriminating evidence. She had particular fun coming to all his products in the bathroom. She picked around at it for a little too long. She glanced at his razor, seeing stray dark hairs within the blades. S

he saw that his products were mostly brand based – apparently he didn't trust the nearby supermarket's own.

She looked at his bog-standard toothbrush, the bristles bent far over, signalling he hadn't renewed his toothbrush for over six months.

She wrapped everything, including his dressing gown, which was hung up on the back of the door. Suddenly she felt rather out of place, touching his dressing gown. It felt too personal, more so than wrapping his bathroom products. Bending down, she pressed the tip of her nose into the rim of the dressing gown. It smelt of shampoo, that _Head and Shoulders_ stuff. Ugh.

She saw a couple of short curled pieces of hair on its rim, and shuddered. She then smelt the torso of the gown. A strange aroma of body odour, mustiness of the house and his deodorant, which was quite subtle, lingered on it.

"Hahahaha! Gracie you gotta come look at this – this is so bloody hilarious…."

Grace was startled out of her little trance, her heart suddenly pacing a little quicker.

She wrapped the gown quickly, and ran down the stairs to find Lisa. Lisa had done a rather brilliant job of wrapping everything that was in the unused living room.

"It's disgusting in here. Jeeze, does he not even hoover the place?"

"I don't think he even goes in here. I haven't." She flinched when she saw a spider move a little in its cobweb in the corner of the musty room. Now in its light, she saw in front of her a black Victorian fireplace. A poker and shovel sat beside it, and there was a large cauldron-like pot of coal.

The sofas were covered in a plastic coating, as if they were being preserved. They were tasteless and gaudy in colour, their floral patterns almost hallucinatory. The floor was wooden; a dark kind of wood, and in front of the fireplace was an ancient looking rug. Lisa rubbed her arms.

"This room is really creepy Grace…let's go to my place. May the Lord have mercy on you when he gets home. You can just crash round mine if you like."

Grace jumped at the idea.

"Good idea. I want to live for at least another sixty years."

Smiling, the two girls packed up and left. It was darkening when they left, both not realising they had spent the day wrapping Crane's things, eating junk food and listening to 80's punk and post-punk bands. However, when they left, Grace locking the door behind her, she heard Lisa muttering.

Frowning, she turned round, her breath showing up in the cold air. She saw Crane coming down the end of the street, holding his briefcase. He wasn't wearing a coat, and didn't seem to be affected by it. He wasn't enthralled to see them either.

Grace just stared at him. Her heart began to pound extremely hard in her chest.

For some reason, he had quickened his pace, but Lisa was already tugging on her sleeve.

"Mate, let's go…"

They headed off, their legs breaking into a run. Lisa began cackling with laughter, but Grace wasn't. They ran all the way down the road to the opposite end of the street. The streets were quiet, and the orange light from the streetlamps emitted a hazy, amber glow. But Grace couldn't laugh, as she walked beside Lisa, towards a familiar bus stop.

A couple of other students were waiting, chatting amongst each other. For the first time, something hit her, a feeling of desolation, and eeriness. The dark night had a sinister atmosphere about it, and she realised there might be more to Crane than she realised.

However, as she arrived at Lisa's six bedroom rented house, music booming above her, she began to think she was just overreacting and that Crane was just a stuck-up, cantankerous prick.


	7. Fire

She didn't go back to her house until the Sunday of that week, deciding to face Crane's reaction at last.

Originally Lisa was going to accompany her, and give Crane 'a piece of her mind', but she had received a somewhat urgent call from home about a relative, and she had to leave, making the greatest of apologies.

Just note his every little reaction for me, was the last thing she said, before dashing off to catch her taxi to the train station. So, brooding on her thoughts, simultaneously dreading and anticipating Crane's reaction, Grace Gilmartin took a long walk home, hands stuffed deep into her woollen coat pockets.

She could imagine his hawk like face staring at her inexorably, eyes deep pool of antipathy, sucking her in.

The thing that mostly unnerved her about him was that beside his perfectly normally pressed suit, shiny shoes and undoubtedly somewhat nerdy sleeveless sweater – were those peculiar shaped glasses that framed emotionless, gaping eyes. Like he was a snake about to strike any moment.

Deciding she had faced much worse, not sure why she was regretting her decision to pull a prank on Crane, she entered the house clumsily and loudly as normal, music player plugged into her ears. The lights in the hallway were off, and she tried to ignore the continuing churn of nerves that swept around in her gut like a raging storm.

She felt a peculiar smell, a strong chemical smell, and wondering if he decided to disinfect the place, at long last. She turned on the main light in the living room, once opening the door. She hated the room. She saw it was still mostly covered in newspaper. She caught her white-faced gaze in the cracked mirror of the room, and jumped slightly.

What was the matter with her?

Switching the light off quickly with the palm of her hand, she slammed the door shut, and trudged down to the kitchen. She felt more relaxed, dumping her saddle bag on the ground, and switching her vintage radio on. She decided she preferred having the radio on in the kitchen, when preparing meals and ironing her clothes. Grace tried to ignore her shaking hands.

She was either suffering from adrenaline, from the thought of angering him, or simple fear. She didn't particularly want to admit the last one. He was no where to be found however, but her heart clenched when there was a huge, angry rip in the newspaper that covered his door. It looked liked a cat had gone for it.

Bits of shredded newspaper littered the dirty rustic carpet beneath her. Somehow this was very disturbing. Breathing deeply, she dumped her bag in her room, and decided to perform a task that was relaxing to her – ironing. It was also something that desperately needed to be done. She grabbed the huge bundle of clothes and crept across the landing and back down the stairs as fast as she could.

The radio kept going, as if normal life kept happening. She tried to warm her cold shaking hands on a mug of tea. Popping pasta into a large saucepan, after having turned the gas hob on, she got straight to ironing. The ironing board took up the entire width of the kitchen, between the window sill and the sink. The hanging light was bright in the kitchen, and it was very dark outside.

She saw the town's orange lights twinkling beyond the trees in the back garden.

She was itching for a cigarette, but fear held her back – she already provoked him enough with this prank, why provoke him further with the smoking?

Angry at her reasoning, angry with herself for feeling fear, she nearly burnt her finger on the tip of the iron. Suddenly, she heard the floorboards above her creak noisily.

She knew his room was above the kitchen. His door abruptly slammed moments later, and she heard him slip down the staircase ever so silently.

Her heart had never pounded so hard in her life. Grace grabbed her glass of red wine that she poured earlier and glugged it down hastily.

Dutch courage, she thought.

/

Unfortunately her back was to the door so she couldn't see him enter the kitchen, ever so slowly.

That was his plan.

He saw the way she ironed, rather clumsily, the edge of the hot iron nearly scalding her fingers. Her hands were quivering. He heard the radio softly, which she had turned down a little. There was no lingering smell of smoke in the room, even though she had the back door open an inch.

It was unfamiliar, the sound of the night – no crickets, as he heard in his childhood home, no wailing sirens in his adult home.

He reached his hand out; it was merely a centimetre away from her hair. He gritted his teeth, and grinded them, a familiar motion to him. He lowered his hand slowly, and rolled his shoulders forward, clicking them.

She carried on, without the faintest idea.

"That was a funny trick, Gilmartin. You had me in stitches…"

She had jumped in fright, but had not immediately turned round. Calming herself, she put the iron back on the metal end of the board, reached for her glass of wine, and twisted around.

Her face was white, but composed.

"Interesting," she interjected. "Didn't think it was possible you could laugh."

His eyes looked over her again, at her collarbone, at her dotted scar-infested neck. They were doubly on show today, for her tired hair was scrunched up with a barrette and her t-shirt swooped low on her neckline, giving him a full view of her clavicles.

Seeing he wasn't responding, his face blank, the light reflecting on his lenses once more, she turned back round, and manoeuvred round the ironing board to stir her pasta.

She poured half a can of Tesco Value chopped tomatoes in another saucepan, chucking in her already fried onions, and tapped a small portion of oregano in as well. She then made her way back to ironing, trying to ignore him as best as she could.

"When did you stop it?" He asked his voice gravelly.

She tiredly put the iron back down, and folded one of her t-shirts.

"Stop what?" she spoke in a monotone, pretending she hadn't understood.

She still wasn't facing him. The pasta bubbled away, sending steam high into the air. The window of the kitchen was condensed up. He stepped closer towards her, his hands behind his back.

He stood beside the sink that was cluttered with her unwashed things. He was very close to her now. He breathed in, and could smell another house on her. She had been at a friend's house for a night.

"When did you realise it was time to change the scenery?"

She switched off and unplugged the iron from the socket, resting it on the counter. She folded the ironing board back up, and turned to face him, shocked at how close he was.

She brushed past him to rest the board next to the fridge and stepped back, far back.

"I don't follow, Crane."

So she was back on a surname basis, he thought dryly, staring at her with a stony expression. He shuffled his feet and cleared his throat, the sound echoing throughout the room, despite the bubbling water and radio.

"Well – when did you realise that it was time to stop your life of sin and addiction? I mean, you changed the outlook, but not the circumstances, Grace."

The way he pronounced her name sent goosebumps to erupt along her arms, and she crossed them together, cradling her body in self-defence. She held his gaze for several moments, before pouring herself another glass of wine unsteadily.

She left it on the counter, turning to him, brow crossed, her nervous demeanour gone for just a moment. He was looking at her enquiringly, almost pulling a look of concern.

"What do you mean? It's none of your business anyway."

She swayed on her feet, looking at him the way a mouse would.

"Oh! But it is!" he exclaimed, and lunged towards her with one single step, and gripped her forearms in both of his hands. She felt like she had been electrocuted the second he touched her.

He pulled her arms out roughly, turning them upwards, her elbows clicking upon the contact. She gasped in slight shock at his forcefulness. Thankfully she was wearing just a short t-shirt he thought; her careless actions provided him the best course of action.

He was gripping her fairly hard, and wrenching her arms out of his grip finally, it took a while for her skin to return to its normal colour tone. Her skin had pulled taut when she twisted her arms away, as if he had been keen to rip the skin off.

He was chuckling slightly, dark eyebrows raised.

"You haven't got better. You may have stopped plunging that oh-so tempting needle into your veins. But yet – you seem dead inside. No goal. You're just a living ghost, wondering these grey streets. Is this what you want? This is your life? Is that what you're afraid of? To go back to your addiction? Living with no friends and family…How long before you cave in, and start again? Taking Daddy's money, smoking like a chimney, eating junk, sleeping your life away…Doing a degree that's not going to take you very far."

His words, spoken in a conversational yet chilling tone, had stung her greatly.

No one, not ever, had spoken such cutting words to her. Not even previous friends or lovers, or her parents. He seemed to have her sussed out, very quickly.

Yet they had hardly spent time around each other, and it was only a week or so in! She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to fight the onslaught of sudden tears, knowing fully well that it would give him undeniably warm sadistic pleasure at seeing his words cut her.

She felt her belly full of warm spicy red wine fire up with cold vehemence.

"Don't patronise me," she snapped.

"I don't really fear much anymore. My past has taught me that. I'm not fucking afraid of anyone; doctors, lecturers, dickheads, the creepy guy down the road…You need imagination to fear, so I don't imagine. I just do the action, already having known such consequences. You know nothing. I'm a lot stronger than you would like to think_- _

"Oh really?" he taunted, spitting at her.

"Those scars on your arms speak otherwise."

She stopped for a second, frowning deeply at him, but feeling aghast at his behaviour. He was acting like some sort of therapist.

"You think I was doing it to permanently damage myself? I'm not suicidal."

"What makes you think that you are not, then?" he answered, stepping closer, like a hawk swooping on its prey.

He was getting so close – his blood was pumping fast through his veins. He felt like ripping that familiar, comforting material out of his pocket and frightening her to dea-

"I lost my grandmother, four years ago, during my addiction. Life is precious. What about you? Got some life story that maybe I can make condescending remarks about?"

He sneered at her, resting a palm on the edge of the counter, leaning in such a way which was atypical of him, putting her off even more. She took another step back, realising the counters were quite close behind her now.

He tilted his head to the side, clicking it and brought it up again.

"How about I tell you that my own grandmother died by my own hands?" He widened and narrowed his pale eyes quickly, for effect.

She had enough.

"Disgusting bastard."

She moved swiftly, brushing past him, hoping to get out of the room, get out of the house, and go to Lisa's for the night. She couldn't stand another moment with him.

However, before she could make her hasty exit, he caught her by the upper arm, and span her back round, giving her a little push, back to where she was previously stood. His expression was significantly darker by this time, and he leaned in towards her, her face around three inches below his.

"Don't play games with me. I'm rather fed up with your incessant, tedious attitude. For the next hour, I'm going to watch, with pleasure; you remove all that newspaper you so lovingly wrapped."

Apparently she took no heed of his somewhat threatening expression and snorted at him, folding her arms again, rocking on her heels.

"Yeah, there's a chance in hell when it comes. What is the matter with you, Crane?" she spoke almost seriously, her eyes widening for a moment.

"Gosh, how you managed to avoid drowning in your cereal this morning, I wouldn't know…" She then sniggered at her own muttered words, rolling her eyes, as if he was the intolerable one.

The water that boiled the pasta began overflowing, catching on the gas flames that kept it heated and a hissing and spitting followed. Yet neither took any heed of it.

He sighed.

"Still insufferable, even when I reveal such painful truths…"

"I beg your pardon, but I'm not looking for a cure. I'm not looking for any cure. I'm fine. So stop trying to diagnose me with some sort of problem. Stop trying to diagnose the world and his wife. I've overcome my problems, thanks for the concern."

Before he could utter a reply, she cut straight through him, pointing at his arm.

Fortunately, he had not mirrored her stupid actions and his sleeves were down. He had lost the sleeveless sweater and was just clad in his white shirt and tie. Maybe that's why he is more intimidating, she thought. Luckily I caught sight of this mark before he could realise and hide it.

"Could I perhaps enquire about the burn mark, on the underside of your arm, Jonathan? Want to explain about that? Perhaps its you with the mental problem, not me."

Within a matter of seconds, before she could gauge his reaction, alongside her cheek bone came an incredibly hard, jolting hit. It forced her to loose her balance and fall against the counter, stunned.

Her vision danced around in her eyes for a moment, and her buttocks caught hard on the tiled floor beneath her. She pressed the tips of her fingers to her cheek, which now stung painfully, and little tears of pain sprung to her eyes.

She felt stunned beyond belief, but simultaneously, mortified.

She couldn't believe what had just happened, and before she could gather her senses, he leered down at her, his thin lips pressed into a horrible smile that did not reach his eyes.

"By the way," he spoke in a low tone, his eyebrows raised in mock concern.

"I had the decency of informing, _warning, _the professors and fellow postgraduates about your dangerous addiction. Just so they know – wouldn't want you to get into trouble again. They care about you, Gracie."

Antagonism like none other made her lash out with the filthiest words she could think of.

"Motherfucking-" But she could get no further in her verbal abuse because he hurled a mind-numbingly brutal kick, with the toe of his shoe, into her abdomen, making her mind turn blue with the pain.

She groaned out in agony, rolling further onto her side, curling up into a ball.

He tutted at her.

"You ought to wash your mouth out with soap. Pity your mother isn't around anymore to tell you these things. Now clean up your mess."

She heard him walk away, in a purposeful, angry stride. She was unable to get up for several moments, too terrified to move.

She waited until she heard the door of the attic crash, very hard.

/

Meanwhile, the assailant took two steps at a time as he went up the stairs, and slammed the door to the attic shut, the sound reverberating throughout the house.

How on earth did she notice his burn mark?

_That was incredibly observant of the wench._

He didn't want to have a housemate. Now he had her, this unendurable woman he couldn't shake off. The burn happened several months ago, half a year almost, in an abandoned laboratory.

He unbuttoned the cuff of his sleeve, and pushed it up. He ran a single, long finger over the burn mark, his skin tingling at the sensation.

He had been experimenting with several chemicals. He had been so intensely involved, giddy with anticipation, forgetting his surroundings. He'd been sat at the table for hours on end, forgetting time. It had been over a weekend when he hadn't been asked to come into Gotham University to help with research. Pointless, useless research with his irritating colleagues.

A week before he was sacked.

However his exhilaration had turned to frustration, leading to carelessness. In his dissatisfaction he had torn his lab coat off, growing warm, exposing an arm.

Moments later, he had knocked an entire beaker of strong chemical over his arm. The entire first layer of skin had been corroded away, resulting in a serious second degree burn.

It had taken weeks to heal, fortunately not involving a skin graft, simply because he had refused. So he let the skin heal, painfully, for longer, resulting in an ugly scar. But it reminded him of his ever-lasting endeavour to achieve what he wanted.

It would only take a matter of time, now.

/

She went straight to bed after the ordeal.

She had class the following day, once again at nine o' clock. Her mind had become a maze of perplexity at first, and then it swiftly melted into blankness.

There was, she thought, nothing to be perplexed about.

It was clear, written in the air. It didn't need to be written in the wind.

She had done what he had ordered her at first, but she had only gone as far as the kitchen. She didn't bother with any of his other things, and stuck her desk chair under the door handle before she went to sleep. Her hands did not stop shaking, until she fell asleep until three o' clock in the morning.

She had left her bedside lamp on. She sat there, in her oversized t-shirt, legs curled up underneath her. She heard him pacing, in the room next to her, and it continued at least until half past one.

Who on God's green earth….

_I won't be a victim. I won't be a victim._

It rang through her head like a chanting mantra, over and over again.

Her fear that she proclaimed to have disappeared, had come back because of him and it made her grow furious.

That exhausted her thoughts, and she drifted asleep.

The next morning, knowing he would possibly be awake, she skipped breakfast.

Grace Gilmartin decided that she deserved to skip soggy corn flakes and have an almond croissant from campus. She didn't bother to shower that morning and practically ran into the bathroom at full steam ahead.

She slammed it shut, thankful there was a lock, and secured it tightly.

She heard his bedroom door open a crack, and her heart began to pound.

_I don't believe this. I want to go home._

But she had to believe it.

She scrubbed her teeth hard and fast, making the gums bleed, and snuck out of the bathroom as quietly as she could. The cold air of the house brushed against the hairs on her arms and bare legs. She was too frightened to look at her face. Upon touching the cold wooden surface of her door, his door shot back open, and yelping in flighty panic, she slammed her door shut.

She heard the floorboards of the landing creak upon his step. Her heart was hammering. She zipped her holdall shut, and took the plunge.

Grace glanced in the mirror. She flinched.

"Shit, shit, shit," she spat.

She never wore foundation, but found an old pot of it in her cosmetics bag. She ran back to the mirror that was above her desk, and took in her artful face.

How did he manage to give her a black eye? She felt he only hit her on the cheek – but apparently she was mistaken.

He had hit her a lot harder than that, more than she would've liked to remember. It had been so quick. Her eyelid was swollen, and her eye itself was a little bloodshot.

It was fine last night, she thought to herself in panic. She could not possibly walk onto campus with a bruised face. There was a bit of broken skin at the fine skin just beside her eye, and surrounding the area was almost beautiful dots of purple, in several shades.

She looked like a mess – a beaten housewife.

She dabbed as much foundation on as she could, and spent more time putting on a bit of eyeshadow. Well, it was going to have to be the smoky eyed look today.

Grabbing her holdall, she exited her room, and half ran down the stairs, towards the front door. She heard more creaking from upstairs, and jumbled the keys around in her hand frantically. She shut the front door, and locked it.

Through the glass of the door, she saw a dark figure move in the background.

It was her chance to take off. She walked extremely fast towards campus, taking in the beautiful fresh air. There were many students about as usual, and a few people had stopped to stare at her, or continue to walk, while leaning in towards each other and whispered.

Was it about the swollen eye or because Crane's rumour had spread like wildfire? It was torture to think about.

She grabbed a tea and croissant and began to sprint to the Arts Centre, seeing she was five minutes late. The light flowed beautifully in the room. Heather Lugh was not there yet, unsurprisingly; she was the most unpunctual lecturer Grace had ever known, much to her fortune.

She was just as guilty. The class of ten were there, and she could hear Lisa's sing-song voice scoff with laughter. She was talking to a fellow classmate, Aaron.

"Aaron, seriously, don't get me wrong, but there's always a contest with an ex – to see who dies miserable first."

Aaron just shook his head in disbelief, but upon seeing Grace smiled, and dropped the smile when the girl had come closer.

The other students, thankfully, had not noticed her, and chatted amongst themselves.

Lisa turned round. She was wearing minty green lipstick.

"Alright, hun, how's it goin? Did old Johnny jump over the candlestick or not…"

Lisa slowed right down, her voice coming to a halt.

Her brow furrowed, sensing straight away and did not widen her eyes. Aaron turned away and pretended to be rearranging his paints in his neat, orderly box.

Grace sat beside her canvas and easel, setting down her holdall. She offered Lisa a bright smile, and bit into her croissant, dropping crumbs all over her lap. Lisa raised her eyebrows. Grace spoke nothing, and continued a cheerful smile before sipping her tea. Lisa frowned, and stood up.

She pinched the sleeve of Grace's thick cable-knit cardigan, and dragged her out of the room. The other students, apart from Aaron, did not take any heed.

Lisa brushed Grace's purposely drawn hair over her face, and wiped a finger over the skin. Grace flinched, nearly a metre backwards. Lisa glanced at the amount of foundation that came off onto her finger.

"Don't, I made an extra effort today," joked Grace sheepishly.

Lisa spluttered loudly, but she appeared furious, something that didn't often happen.

"For who? Acne Aaron?"

"Leese, we're not in the school playground." Lisa smiled, but her eyes wavered at the sight of Grace.

Thankfully Aaron was absorbed in conversation with another student and hadn't heard.

"Mate – I know something's up when I see it. You never wear foundation – or this eyeshadow crap either. Your eye is swollen…."

Grace tried to keep a smile on her face, clutching her warm cup of tea, suddenly staring at the ground, horribly ashamed. Her eyes pooled swiftly with tears, and when she glanced at her friend's caring face – her face just crumpled.

She found she had cried more in this month than she ever had in the last three to four years.

There was something, something that was working away at her soul, trying to gobble it up. Grace began to silently cry, as she whispered her words.

Her tears fell onto her lacy t-shirt, spotting it quickly.

"He – he…he hit me. He was acting, so _odd_…He was questioning about my past life, mocking me. Making me feel this small," she gestured with her thumb and forefinger.

Her tears were falling fast now, and her perfect make-up was ruined shortly.

"He said he told fellow students and lecturers…"

Lisa knew fully well, although Grace had never told her, that her new friend was an old heroin addict. She felt affinity with this girl.

"Like hell he has – he's one of those, Grace. A manipulator – you need to stay clear of those. They get right into your psyche; attempt to snap all interlinked wires of confidence, contentment and sanity. Mate, you need to move. Right now."

Lisa grasped Grace in a bear hug to the best of her ability. Grace found it difficult not to use her friend's red hoodie as a handkerchief.

"But – I don't want to show I'm afraid of him. Especially as I told him I wasn't afraid of anyone."

"Seriously, you don't want to end up with this happening more often. You can't be telling people you're walking into doors all the time. There's courage and there's courage, Grace. There's courage in realising that you don't need any more crap. Staying behind may seem like courage to you, but you'd be letting him win. Ew – need a tissue?"

Grace started to laugh, and Lisa smirked. Heather Lugh was down the end of the corridor, chatting away to another student, lost in her own world.

"No – moving away would be letting him win. He didn't want a housemate in the first place, I could tell from the second he looked at me. No. I'm going to get under his skin."

"Good bloody luck."

They turned and rushed off to the bathroom, before going back to the classroom. The two hour session seemed to drag by painfully slowly, and Grace did not have any motivation whatsoever for her painting. They were all working on a small individual project at the moment, linked to a recent artist.

She felt her vision blur, and her mind fill with endless anxiety.

That unexplained but familiar anxiety that worked from the pit of her stomach fell over her like a large tidal wave, and she failed to continue painting. She chewed on her nails and flicked through various art books mindlessly. It was the same feeling she got years ago.

When she was still a junkie. Anxiety was a full time job. It was a terrible feeling, and she wanted to tear her hair out in mere frustration – why was she feeling this now?

Everyone started to pack away, signalling the session was over. Lisa had to nudge her a little, her face devoid of any of her previous amusement, caused by some of the larking about she had produced in the past half hour. She frowned deeply at Grace, lost in thought.

"Your poor face," she commented, lightly.

Grace shoved all her things hard into her holdall, ignoring Lisa, feeling angry herself; the anxiety was washed away in place of this new found emotion. Lisa refrained from saying anything. All the students swept out of the art studio, and out of the Arts Centre, into the busy campus again.

It was the busiest she had seen it yet, yet the raging wind that blew from behind them blurred the vision of the hectic grounds. It spat hard with rain, and the air that the wind was blowing was harshly icy. Grace felt her fingers stiffen with the oncoming coldness. Lisa poked an arm through Grace's and they walked hard against the wind that blew so viciously at them, trying to walk through the multitude of people.

"Jesus, where's this coming from?" Lisa had muttered, but Grace hadn't heard.

Lisa mouthed 'café?' before Grace steered them towards the very place, desperate to get away from the frozen breeziness of the air. Winter was approaching very rapidly, yet it was only October.

The auburn leaves that clung to the trees that stood within the grounds were harshly departed from their beloved branches, thrown about the campus with intense force. Lisa caught one in her hand, and stowed it in her sketchbook, before entering the café through the glass door.

There was a fairly large queue, and the baristas ran around like blue-arsed flies, trying to attend to each customer. At the front, an elderly Professor was having a raging battle with one spotty, lanky male barista.

Grace's cheeks and fingers were stinging from the cold, and she caught a glance of herself in the windows of the café, eyes widening at how conspicuous her black eye was.

The noise in the café was so intense, she could only just about manage to lip read what Lisa was saying, about cake and tea. She didn't really feel like talking. Her thoughts kept drifting to her family, and to her past life.

When she brought her eyes up once more, feeling a little more positive after reasoning with herself, her stomach felt like it had somersaulted and dropped through her arse.

She had glimpsed Dina, briefly, and calculating quickly, her eyes had moved to the taller figure, and she zoned in on Crane.

Dina was clutching a shiny squeaky red raincoat in her hands, dripping water all over the place, and her hair was plastered messily to her forehead – but only in an attractive way, thought Grace begrudgingly.

Crane, on the other hand, seemed to be relatively rain free in a thick black coat, laptop case in one hand, burgundy scarf in the other. Dina was swinging about a clear plastic umbrella in enthusiasm, flicking droplets of water around.

She noticed with amusement that people in the queue flinched from it, and someone rubbed at their eye irritably. Crane looked like he was sucking on a lemon – as he always inevitably did, not helped by high cheekbones and a most unpleasant expression of antipathy.

She didn't see it was directed at Dina, and nor at anyone else – and her heart skipped a few beats when she realised, coming out of her stupor, that it was directed _at her._

Grace grasped her holdall's strap on her shoulder tightly. To her dismay, Lisa was in conversation with a blonde guy ahead of her, oblivious to Grace's sudden panic-stricken face.

Dina turned off the other way, saying a goodbye to Crane, heading for the ladies toilets. On the other hand, Crane made a beeline for her, and she did her best to ignore him, and decide on what specific tea she wanted and oh – whether to go for a large, hmm, two quid, or a small, that was pretty cheap but not value for money-

"Gilmartin," he breathed, having crept up to her like a hungry, ravenous vulture, his eyes inexpressive underneath his glasses and he absent-mindedly licked his lips.

She counted to five and turned her head, clearing her throat, and kicked the back of Lisa's shoe subtly. It didn't miss the attention of Jonathan Crane however, and he glanced, sticking his chin outwards, to gaze condescendingly at Lisa. Lisa held one finger up, telling Grace to wait, chuckling hoarsely at something the blonde guy had said.

"May I have a word?" he started, shifting his feet, though not out of discomfiture.

It was like he was setting a pace, a challenge.

She saw droplets of rain on top of his dark hair, and on the lenses of his sharp-edged glasses. He was studying her again from the point of view of a clinical physician or therapist; with great interest but detachedly, like a curious onlooker in the scene of a nasty accident. She saw his eyes grace over her bruised face a little longer than necessary.

She sighed through her nose, breathing deeply, remembering she was not going to be this victim that he wanted her to be. Her clenching heart quickened and she felt like she was started to sway on her feet. It felt like only she and Crane were the ones in the room, amidst the noisy scene of the café.

"I don't really think you can," she hissed through clenched teeth, meeting him in the eye, hoping to be aggressive as possible.

A little dent, which Grace had never noticed before, formed in his temple, and she saw he was clenching his teeth also. He joined the queue, to her horror, standing beside her, facing straight ahead, and began talking to her in his gritty low voice. Lisa had noticed what was going on, but she did not realise it was Grace's housemate that had recently joined.

Then, as if washed clean of all dislike, like leaving a clean slate devoid of chalk, Crane's face changed a little.

Not necessarily one that transferred from hate to impassivity, but one that had a certain look she couldn't quite place. It wasn't entirely pleasant but it wasn't agreeable either. He cleared his throat, as if preparing for a speech.

"I'm sorry about what happened," he spoke, ever so softly.

It was inevitably drowned out by the noise of the students in the café, but somehow she heard it perfectly clearly. He didn't blink at least for a minute, and didn't waver either. A certain coldness filled her, one she had never felt before; it froze her to the core.

She hadn't been frightened like this by a person before. Always by the thought of her future, or the drugs, or the fear of becoming like it again. She might have been intimidated by pushy friends, teachers, her parents, or by some drunken idiot that wanted to have sex with her.

He paused, taking her in. Lisa was still not turning around. Sudden hot waves pushed the blood to the surface of Grace Gilmartin's cheeks and she swiftly found herself becoming embarrassed by him.

What the hell was he playing at?

"I never wanted to come to what it did, I hope you understand. I lost my temper. It was uncalled for," he began speaking again, somewhat coldly.

_You're not sorry at all, mate. _

"What right do you-?"

"I can perfectly understand this resentment and fear you're feeling," he spoke almost silkily.

The condescension in his voice was unbelievable, and she couldn't help but let a small snort escape. He accentuated the 'f' in fear a little too much for her liking.

At this point, the queue moved forward, and the blonde guy was buying Lisa and Grace cakes and tea.

"No, no, it's all on me," he was saying jovially. Jonathan Crane cleared his throat loudly, so that Grace's eyes drifted back over to him. She was trying to look for a hint of compunction in his face, but there was none there, just a cold mask of indifference.

"My research – it was troubling me that night," he spoke.

She felt like crying, in all of a sudden.

Very badly crying – it was a regular thought now. It was perturbing, for she wasn't the crying type.

"It forced me out of control."

She stared him hard in the eye when he said sorry, but he still wasn't blinking, although she swore she saw him twitch a centimetre forward when she raised her eyebrows. She remained unconvinced, and saw blonde guy and Lisa move towards a free table, still chatting away.

She felt like 'sorry' was such an easy word that was carelessly thrown around. And for a sociopath like him, she decided, it was probably very easy to say the simultaneously empty and consequential word.

"I would like to make it up to you," he said, ordering a coffee blandly.

Oh great, he'll buy me a coffee, what a guy, she couldn't help but think sarcastically.

However, he didn't. She frowned, wondering what he meant. He was stood right in front of her, and she was too embarrassed to move away or speak her mind.

It seemed like he was blocking her exit in some sort of obscure way. It was a public place. He could do nothing.

Lisa was staring at them both, her brow furrowed. The baristas made his coffee, and he walked over to the condiments area, turning back to send her one of his infamous glares, beckoning her over without much expression.

Curious, she moved her feet forward; ignoring Lisa's beckoning, puzzled looks.

"Well, you haven't bought me coffee. How on earth can I forgive you…" she joked, forgetting herself briefly, and then realised the situation, and lost the smile instantly.

He shook a packet of brown sugar, ripping the top off harshly, before pouring it into his coffee, not bothering to add milk.

He ignored her sarcasm.

She stared at him intensely, hoping to make him uncomfortable, but it wasn't really working. She saw he had rather long dark eyelashes, from underneath his lenses. People were behind them abruptly, waiting to fill their drinks with sugar and milk.

He walked deliberately away from Lisa and blonde guy, towards the exit, and she followed him, not wondering why, not daring to deviate.

"How about dinner?" he spoke.

If her stomach hadn't dropped for definite, it certainly had now.

Surely, he wasn't being serious, she mused. Then she realised he was the kind of person that took himself extremely seriously, and due to past experiences, didn't really find her sarcasm and wit very funny. She wasn't quite sure if he was asking her out or not or simply 'making it up to her.'

She saw flecks of snow behind him, through the glass door, and people were looking about in wonder. Her mind drifted for a moment.

The country never received snow this early, usually it happened around January. He cleared his throat impatiently, once again, and she snapped back to attention.

"What about Dina?" she asked bluntly. For the first time, his face changed completely. He frowned, briefly.

"What about her?" he replied, the frown disappearing now.

She swallowed and shuffled awkwardly.

"Ain't she your girlfriend?"

He suddenly smirked at her, pulling out black gloves from his pocket and handed her his coffee.

He shoved it in her hands a little too roughly, so the liquid spilled over her bare hands a little. She tried her hardest not to wince, somehow thinking he might have done it deliberately.

He pulled his gloves on, and lifted his eyes back up to stare at her once finished. She warmed her cold fingertips on the Styrofoam cup. He still had that infuriating smirk on his face.

"Well, she's not. And if she was – it would not matter, because I'm not asking you on a date, Gilmartin."

Her face flushed a horrible red, the worst kind of blushing available, and she glanced away pointedly, shoving the cup back into his hands.

"Fine. The best restaurant in town it is then, Crane," she snapped, suddenly satisfied the coffee had sloshed onto the black cuff of his coat.

He ignored this.

"You know there's a Postgrad get together tomorrow evening, perhaps you ought to make the effort of going," he spoke, absently wrapping his rather thinly woven scarf round his neck. It didn't look like it would do its job properly, compared to her brightly patterned snood-scarf.

Grace's savoir arrived.

Lisa slammed her mittened hands down on Grace's shoulders, emitting a yelp from her, and Crane's eyes lazily glanced up to set his hawkish gaze on the heavily tattooed girl.

"Hey chumps. Sorry to break up this _riveting_conversation – but this girl has got a whole load of shit to eat. She needs fattening up."

After she poked her friend in the ribs, Lisa made a great show of roving her eyes over Crane's form. He was less than amused.

"Tonight then," he spoke, and turned around.

He whipped open the door of the café roughly, and disappeared among the crowds of the campus. Lisa put an arm around Grace and turned her back towards the table where the blonde guy was sat, a laptop sat in front of him.

"That was a ballache," moaned Lisa. "Is that who I think it is?"

Grace nodded miserably, and they sat down. She had a brightly coloured cupcake on one plate, a bakewell tart on another, and lastly pieces of shortbread on the last plate. Grace reached for a piece of shortbread and shoved it into her mouth ravenously.

She gulped all her tea down, which was too warm for her now. It needed to be hot.

"He asked me out to dinner," she announced vaguely.

Lisa raised her eyebrows, picking pieces off her cupcake, and popping them into her mouth.

The blonde guy seemed to be uninterested in their conversation, tapping away on his laptop.

"You're not gonna accept, though, are you?" Grace, honestly shrugged, grabbing another piece of shortbread. It reached the hour, and people left to go to their lectures, lessening the noise of the café.

"No idea. He was pretty sincere." Lisa frowned darkly.

"What a slimy…."

Grace ignored the intensely foul word that followed afterwards, thankfully no one else had heard.

"Yeah, but your swollen eye isn't going away so soon is it?"

"The thing is, Lisa, I think I might antagonise the situation if I don't go." Lisa spluttered in disbelief.

"And what – give into him?!"

"Of course not," replied Grace.

She smirked a little, stunning Lisa into silence.

"Oh no, I think not going will be giving into him. It will show him what he wants; that I'm afraid of him." Lisa smiled at her, chewing on a bit of icing from a cupcake.

"Right, reverse psychology. A date with Crane it is."

"It's not a date." Lisa clapped her hands.

"You thought it was! _Oh Johnny!_Be still my beating heart!"

Grace couldn't help but laugh as well, and chucked a bit of leftover shortbread at her. They may have laughed about it for the next minute, but part of it left Grace feeling cold.

One moment they were talking seriously about the impact of his violence on Grace. The next minute they were giggling about the ridiculousness of a date. They laughed, they ate, and they drank their tea, before walking back home.

Meanwhile, Crane was in an entirely different process of thought, still on campus. He was peeling his gloves off, sat in the library in the Law Section, where there were always fewer students about. His laptop started up before him. The students that were there were huddled on the other side of the room.

He was sat in a deserted corner, dusty ancient bookshelves surrounding and towering over him. He hadn't touched his coffee, which had now cooled down to an undrinkable temperature. His thoughts were still on his recent encounter with Gilmartin.

He couldn't tarnish his reputation that he had worked so hard to create, the one that masked him. God knows what she could've done, gone to the University and reported him. But seeing her in the café, intimidated by him, her face paling at the sight of his presence, alerted him to the fact that she hadn't taken any action.

He would have to make sure she never would.

His intimidation skills worked pretty well; there had been genuine fear in her eyes.

She would have to retract her ludicrous statement about not being frightened of anyone. He smirked to himself, and began to type.

He'd make her pay, whatever the costs.


	8. Rain

**AN; **Thank you very much all you readers. Hope you enjoy my story as much as I enjoy writing it. Thank you to Minion, you've been my rock.

And I might as well reiterate that I don't own Batman or anything affiliated with it. I just write for fun and your enjoyment.

/

She spent a productive day, after returning from campus, doing things that were not painting, or involving her degree.

Yet again, her mood dipped significantly low. It dipped lower when she had tried to call home, and it had kept ringing, and then stopped abruptly, not going to the answerphone. She knew it was because her mother had purposely hung up or stopped it.

Her spirits were in the deepest depths by the time she threw on some scruffy clothes to go out in again and scruffily tied her hair up with a barrette. She looked terrible in the mirror, she concluded, the swelling of the eye had lessened a little, but the mauve bruising was still unpleasantly evident.

She finally changed out of her pyjamas at one in the afternoon, and walked to Tesco's, deciding she would bake cookies until she would have to get ready to go to dinner with Crane.

There was a storm of anxiety bubbling away in the bottom of her stomach. She tried to ignore the pain of it, walking about the supermarket jovially, humming, picking out her ingredients for her cookies.

People pushed past her, intent on collecting their own ingredients. Some stood in the middle of the aisles, no idea they were causing heightening bedlam. Trying to remember her shopping list that now lay uselessly on the kitchen counter, she wandered like a lost soul throughout the busy aisles of the supermarket.

Her thoughts drifted to her past, the particular painful ones, wondering why they were returning now, in the middle of the supermarket, in the middle of the day.

/

_It was a hot, summer day, one of those unusual spurts of weather you only received very little._

_The rear of her dress stuck to her back, the hem of it clung to her thighs. She exited the dirty exchange shop, looked back and forth down the road, and crossed it quickly. Despite the humid air that stung your eyes with its intense, it was pouring with rain – it was like a monsoon._

_The gutters were filled with dirty water, bubbling at the surface._

_Her skimpy summer dress with printed flamingos clung to her further as the rain hammered, her nipples clearly showing through. She squinted through the hard rain, and ran towards the Range Rover over on the opposite side of the street. Her friends Kieran and Sandy sat inside, their faces mystified._

_She got in, breathing hard and soaking wet, and lit a cigarette._

_"You were gone for ten minutes," began Sandy._

_Sighing, Grace took out forty pounds from inside the pocket of her wet summer dress._

_Kieran frowned at the wodge of money slapped into his crotch._

_"There's forty. Drive home now. Perhaps get some rum on the way. He was dirty."_

_Terrible realisation took hold of Kieran and Sandy's faces._

_Shocked at what their friend had just done, they both sat there, mouths open. They needed money desperately in order to keep using, but they had never imagined this._

_"Grace….are you alright?" _

_"Just get a fucking move on, Kieran."_

_Kieran did so, and the car started off with a chug and a lurch, disappearing into the heavy rain._

_/  
_

She felt tears prick at her eyes again.

It was like she was having a revelation, a mid-life crisis, realising the full extent of her actions. She had spent three years at home, working as a cleaner, and yet she was numb the entire way through. It seemed to only be hitting her now.

Quickly paying for her shopping, she tried to get home as fast as possible, managing to avoid the rain. As much as she felt she ought to, Grace did not want to explore Feston any further. The place was desolate; it had been ever since she had first arrived.

If this was to be the place of her revelation, her bleak realisation, then she wanted to know little of it as possible.

This was close to her hometown, and she did not want to taint her hometown. She struggled with her plastic bags full of food all the way home, her cheeks becoming pink with exertion, down the street full of terraced grey houses, down another and another, until she reached a hill before entering her street – another grey avenue full of grey houses.

The house that was supposed to be her residence was probably bleaker than all the other houses in the street – which mostly housed students. There were the residues of her cigarettes littered about the front door. The straw mat was soaked with grime and mud from the weather.

The black bin bags had collected rain water on top. The curtains of the front bay window were still drawn, and she could see black mould collecting around the inside of the window panes.

Out of the blue, rain dashed down, and shortly soaked her.

She struggled around for her keys, hands stiff and frozen, before shoving them into the door, and bursting in. She was a drowned rat, yet again. The skin on her face stung painfully. Her mascara was streaked all down her face messily.

She must have looked as if she had been crying. She hoped Crane with his x-ray vision eyes and an extremely unnerving habit of picking up psychological aspects of a person merely from physical movements would not notice her.

She sniggered at how sarcastic she sounded.

The place, as usual, was shrouded in darkness.

She didn't waste time in unpacking her things, stacking everything neatly in order.

She had a glance at his things in the fridge. Semi-skimmed milk. Rather mature crumbly cheese. Unsalted butter all wrapped up scruffily in tin foil. An opened tin can of beans.

Obviously he didn't know the basic rules; do not leave food in the tin-can in the fridge.

She glanced at the bottle of milk and thought of a rather, crude joke, and decided to go against it. Well, it could wait until after their next meeting. He had a couple of tomatoes and an unused end of a cucumber.

She placed all her new items in the fridge, purposely mixing 'his' shelf with 'hers.'

"Well if we're going to be friends…" she had mumbled.

She watched the rain idly before packing away her things in her cupboard. She had a brief glance in his; the usual sat there, all neatly stacked and untouched by her.

The South African ground coffee. Granulated sugar, the outside of its packet was soggy, probably because of the damp in the cupboard. No more OXO cubes. No more cans of chewy value beans. A tube of tomato puree….

He claimed to be this intellectually superior mastermind, yet he had pots of dried basil and a box full of granola in his cupboard.

She took a knife from the drawer and stabbed a tiny hole in the packet of granulated sugar. It popped open easily, and the sugar let the nature of gravity happen. The sugar fell like a waterfall from one shelf to another, and she watched, satisfied. Just in case he pisses me off at this formal dinner.

Cheered, she began working on her recipe – granola and white chocolate cookies. He had a box full of granola in his cupboard – surely he would like these, although the white chocolate might be too sweet.

He needs sweetening up, she thought dryly, and then laughed at herself.

She was puffed out by the time she had her dough mixed, after sending a shoot of flour onto her black jumper and onto the floor. She had the oven going, and lined a couple of baking trays with tin foil that belonged to Crane.

She never could get the hang of tearing foil off cleanly, and ended up making a mess.

Ten reasons to kill Grace Gilmartin, she grudgingly thought, his blank, cold face coming into her mind.

Trying to ease her tense body and mind about the upcoming 'dinner', she switched on the radio as she separated the dough into balls.

She was twisting, turning and twirling in time to the music, finally whisking her creations into the oven. They need at least twenty-five minutes or so to bake.

Time for a shower.

In the grimy bathroom, she was going to have to make a point of cleaning it, from top to bottom. It was rather depressing going in there. The rather bright white light highlighted every rancid corner of the bathroom; from the orange coloured dirt in-between the tiles, to the dirt and muck that had gathered on the plumbing pipes.

She saw dirt clinging to the edge of the taps, and grunge all over the sink. It was just dirt that had accumulated – from nowhere in particular. She wasn't sure how long Crane had been living here, but judging how meticulous he was with his storing of his things, she guessed not long.

The previous students had left this house in a rotten mess and clearly the landlord could not be bothered to hire a professional cleaner to clean it, or clean it himself. She had seen black mould growing in certain areas all over the house; beside the kitchen door, on the walls. In the wooden cupboards of the kitchen, she and Crane had purposely kept their things out of those ones.

She had some black mould growing under her window in her room; she supposed the same happened in his room.

She stripped off, dumping her clothes uncaringly on the plastic tiled floor, and then caught her reflection in the mirror.

She flinched at her face, but her eyes drew to the somewhat artful bruise that spread just below her ribs, on her left side. It was peculiar shade of mauve and pink, a colour she had never seen before; probably one she would have a lot of trouble creating on her palette.

She took a closer step to the mirror, frowning wondering how on earth she had received it. She pressed the tips of her cold fingertips into the bruise, wincing at the throbbing pain.

Ah yes, it came to her. He had kicked her, hard, with the tip of his shiny polished shoe before storming off.

New fuelled anger like a flare from an explosion lighted up in her stomach.

He better be sorry, she thought, switching the electric shower on, waiting impatiently for the water to warm up.

Grace turned back to analyse the bruise and lightly brushed her fingers over it again, cocking her head. Her eyes caught in the mirror, and immediately she imagined his eyes behind her, those pitiless eyes, absorbing her in, sneeringly, as he kicked her on the cold, hard kitchen floor.

She cupped her breast in one hand, trailing, ever so lightly, her other hand over her neck area.

Suddenly her breathing quickened. She then snapped to attention, like a solider would.

_What the hell am I doing?_

She was aroused. Ye Gods, she exclaimed in her mind, stepping hastily into the shower, slipping a little as there was no bathmat.

She was disgusted with herself; she had let the bruise turn her on. What was wrong with her? But she couldn't keep her hands to herself in the shower, letting the water run over her slowly in rivets down her face, into her eyes and ears, her hands warming, trailing down to her lower region.

She thought of her ex-boyfriend, and then blanked it extremely quickly, pondering why she let that happen.

She tried to visualise someone likeable and imaginary, but the extremely cold expression of Crane kept popping into her mind unwittingly, his cruel bitter eyes piercing through the lenses of his glasses. She thinks of a poem.

_I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see I swallow immediately. Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful…_

She thought of another, goose bumps showing on her forearms. She rubbed her arms rapidly.

_The smile of iceboxes annihilates me. _

She felt tainted, disgusted, as if she had just imagined something truly abhorrent, thinking of him, equating these lines from old poems to him. She scrubbed the shampoo into her hair hard, ignoring his own shampoo, ignoring the desire to smell it.

"DAMN YOU!" she exclaimed loudly, and went for his shampoo bottle, and picked it up, smelling it, inhaling deeply.

A shudder passed through her, and then she quickly put it down, hoping it was in the same position. Why was she being aroused by these things? She was just sexually frustrated, she concluded.

The shampoo smelt so distinctly male after all. She was only a woman – she could imagine, couldn't she!

What worried her was the reaction to her bruise.

The thought of dinner with him briefly came to her mind again, and her heart clenched, and began a faster pace. She had seen it was only a couple of hours before the dreaded meal. The door downstairs suddenly slammed; it had been the front door.

Startled, she tripped out of the bathtub after finished washing her hair, catching her knees hard on the ground, hissing a rather crude sentence, before picking herself up, flicking her wet hair about.

She was very, very tempted to pull another prank on him.

She only had to glance at her swollen eye to get rid of all arousal, and let the anger fall back into its rightful place. Perhaps fill his shampoo bottle or tube of toothpaste with something awful. After drying her body off, realising with a tremor that her hands were badly shaking, she flung on a dark camisole and a pair of blue slim jeans.

She gave her hair a rub. She flung open the door, humming a familiar tune, wrapping a towel around her head. She nearly skipped down to the kitchen and saw her lovely cookies. They were risen, brown and fat. She popped them onto a plate to cool, plonking the baking tray into the sink carelessly.

She poked at her cookies, her wonders, her glory.

"I hope you're going to wash up before we go," came a gruff, frosty voice, and she jumped a little, spinning around to face him. He was dressed the most casual she had ever seen him – his tie was loose, and his dark shirt untucked. His glasses were off, and he was carrying his sleeveless sweater in one hand.

She saw his kept his sleeves down however; still she wouldn't like to enquire about that burn scar again, it might entail another beating. The word made her eyes prick with tears. Her eyes fluttered, and for the first time, her resolve nearly crumbled in front of him.

Sexually frustrated and teary! What on earth is happening, she demanded crossly in her head. Must be the time of the month.

She turned abruptly away, infuriated with her sudden weakness, hopefully hiding it from him. Unfortunately, Crane doesn't ever miss these things in people. She heard him step a little closer. Dammit, her mind pounded metaphorically on a wall.

Why does he have his glasses off, why does he look so casual and human?

I want to cry on someone's shoulder. She sniffed rather roughly, took a cookie, turning back around. His face was blank, but there was a little crease in his forehead. Perhaps he had marked a permanent line of anger into the skin of his brow.

"Want one? Granola and white chocolate…" she said, as brightly as she could.

She saw him swallow extremely uncomfortably, his Adam's apple bobbed up, then down in his thin neck.

He stared disdainfully down at her flour soaked hands, caked in-between her nails and cuticles.

"No, thank you," he politely refused.

She narrowed her eyes, taking him in. He looked like a dam waiting to burst. Like he wanted to soar out with bat-like wings and terrify her to death.

_Well, come on, then_.

She saw he was pressing the tips of his nails into his palm on the hand that wasn't clutching his tank top.

His eyes suddenly roved over her, unashamedly staring at what she was wearing.

Grace unexpectedly felt very self-conscious.

She saw him breathe in, very softly, his eyes rising again to meet hers, both their eye colours like a rush of healthy oceans meeting dirty waters.

"I can see you have washed but can I be correct in assuming that you are not wearing this out?"

Surprised, she raised her eyebrows, and looked down at herself. She was pleased her shower gel worked. She bloody well hoped she smelt like she had washed, the creep, although she noticed he used the verb 'to see'. _Creep._

"Um…actually, you're incorrect," she replied, smiling a little, but he wasn't.

"Well, it might be suitable for lazing about in," he bitingly retorted, raising his own eyebrows.

She lowered her hand with the cookie and plonked it huffily down the plate. He moved quite close to her, leaned across and switched the kettle on. She caught a whiff of his shirt as he leant in; strong chemicals.

Unfamiliar, strong chemicals. And a mustiness. Her mouth became dry as if someone consciously hoovered all the salvia left in her mouth.

"I don't own any dresses, if that is what you are insinuating," she snapped back, stepping away from him, not liking the proximity between them.

But he had an incredible knack of getting too close for his own good, and she felt her back pressing painfully against the sink, as he stood in front of her. The kettle whirred. He then chuckled, a high cold laugh that one way or another suited him.

"Oh Grace. I wasn't insinuating anything," he replied.

Her mouth fell open, but holding herself carefully, she leaned forward and stared at him deep in the eyes.

It was incredibly hard to maintain eye contact with someone like him, and she wanted to applaud herself on it.

"Next time you want to be condescending? Try harder. I was only half insulted."

She hoped her gaze was saying; I don't like you, and I'm not remotely frightened of you. She knew that he wouldn't hit her, not this time. Perhaps another time, but not this time. She saw his jaw tighten visibly, but then it fell slack, and smiled a small smile.

She saw signs of stubble lining his jaw as he leaned in a little. That was perplexing; he was always neatly pressed, clean-shaven, in order.

There was a manic gleam in his eyes. He was incontestably strained about something.

"Find something more suitable. I don't want you looking as if you've wandered out of Walmart."

Her face fell from furious to bewildered, then she realised what the unfamiliar name was, having thought of something she saw on the internet a while ago.

"Teggies?" she offered. She realised that was the local vernacular, and tried again. "Tescos?'"

He fell back, holding her gaze until the last minute, and went to pour himself a cup of coffee. She asked him casually to pour her a cup of tea, and to her complete surprise he did so, impassively shoving a tea bag from the pot into a clean mug, ignoring her favourite Minnie Mouse one.

It was riddled with tea stains after all; she hadn't bothered to clean it for a fortnight now.

"You know, you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar," she spoke.

He took the soggy paper out of the filter once the coffee had been sifted and threw it into the bin. Some of the excess liquid caught on the edge of the bin and made a spectacular splash, the droplets tossed nowhere in particular. He didn't bother with sugar this time.

He brushed past her breezily, plopping his vest on the nearby table, and reached for her milk, pouring it into her ready made tea, pouring less in than she would have liked. She didn't bother to correct him, knowing he must have done it purposely. He was too good to miss things like that; somehow she suspected that he knew exactly how she did her tea. He picked up his mug and vest, and forced a rather terrible smile that did not suit his face at all.

She didn't think smiling would ever, ever, suit his face. It was a clown-like smile.

"Well, in that case, why don't you put something nicer on? Please?"

He then walked past her, having passed her dangerously closely, and it gave her an opportune moment. She didn't like his tone one little bit. With her still-doughy hands, she pushed a hand out and wiped it over his shirt, making a great white vertical mark.

Bits of dough fell off her hand and his shirt to the floor.

He didn't 't react, only planting his feet hard on the ground, and lifting his arms up automatically as if his shirt was soaking wet instead of rubbed briefly with a concoction of flour and dough.

He let a long whistle of breath pass through his nose, and lowered his arms. She saw him grind his jaw; there was a distinctive dent in the lower half of his cheek when he did so. He flicked his eyes up to meet hers and her smile of mockery fell abruptly from his face. She was really, really pressing his buttons.

She'd gone so far last time, and it had not taken much. He looked back down at his shirt, and roughly wiped it off with one quick swipe of his hand. His brow was lowered so low, into a grimace, that it cast a dark shadow over his sallow looking eyes, beneath his silver frames.

He promptly disappeared out of the room without another glance at her. She waited patiently, hearing his footsteps lessen. They kept going, however, and the attic door went again. Retreating to her own room, she decided that his unusual behaviour this evening unnerved her the most.

She sat on her bed in her room, deciding she might, when he was at one of his early morning seminars, creak upstairs to that attic room and see why he often went up there.

It was beginning to unsettle her, especially as he told her that she should avoid going up there, unless she wanted a nasty accident. She stared at the un-hoovered carpet for a while, a dark cloud felt like it was ready to hover over her. She sipped on the tea that he had made her, and decided to rifle through her wardrobe.

After spending fifteen frustrating minutes, she found a small black skirt and a chiffon blouse. She dug out some thick black tights and her patent dolly shoes. By the time she re-applied her mascara, and held a red lipstick in her quivering hand, she realised she was becoming aroused again.

"For fuck's sake," she mumbled, and tossed the lipstick back into the cosmetic case.

Will not bother with lipstick.

Then she thought of Lisa in her mind, raising her eyebrows sardonically.

_Are you seriously going to let that prick get to you? Why are you so afraid to wear bloody lipstick?_

She had, in sixth form, worn lipstick every day.

But since a certain old self-seeking friend told her it was too much, she had refrained. It seemed too much for her now. She never wore dresses or skirts, why should she wear lipstick? Perhaps she could walk into the restaurant, head held high, and show him she was not intimidated, whatsoever. That was the good plan.

She saw her black bra, she seemed to only own black bras, showed through her chiffon blouse and smirked a little at herself in the mirror. Would it make him feel uncomfortable?

She decided she didn't want to make it awkward for herself in any case and drew out a black camisole, slipping it on.

When she was sufficiently ready, she took herself downstairs, dropping her black handbag beside the front door. She caught a glimpse of her hair in the downstairs mirror above the table that was beside the front door.

Her nearly non-existent short fringe was sticking up in several places, and her shoulder-length wispy hair wasn't doing much for itself either. She ran back upstairs, and pulled it all high onto her head, into a scruffy bun, thinking it might look elegant. She flicked her eyes down to the lipstick once more. She put some on, with ease. She pinned back her fringe and went downstairs.

The kitchen's counters were covered with pieces of dough and white flour.

By the time it reached that dreaded hour, her heart began to beat faster. She washed her hands clean, feeling her pulse becoming out of control. Her legs felt weak, and her hands were visibly shaking. Grace didn't know why, but she felt like she was walking into a huge trap. His apology was far from a reasonable one, and it hadn't been very sincere. She realised he might be trying to coax her. After all he was a respected PhD student that taught part-time at a prestigious University.

She wasn't stupid. She had researched his subject online one time with her little netbook, late at night. The University wasn't particularly renowned as an art college. But it had been the location and the particular course that she admired. She truly wanted to go to York, but unfortunately they did not provide the course she wanted.

They had a History of Art course, but it was the nitty-gritty, the hands on thing she still wanted to continue with. She saw Feston University was the best University, number two in the world, for Psychopharmacology. It was a marvel she remembered the name. No wonder he was here.

But she could tell he looked his nose down at her, and probably everyone else.

As it comes with anxiety, she felt the need to relieve herself once more.

She quickly dried her hands on a tea-towel and before she could find escape and solitude in the bathroom, looking over her appearance again and again, she stopped dead, fixing her feet at rest on the ground, walking straight into him. Her nose came at his throat, and thankfully she held her gasp of shock inwards. Upon drawing back, Grace caught a musky whiff of cologne, subtle but strong.

She couldn't help but inhale it, and the musk hit the back of her throat, stinging her nose along the way. He had lost his sinister gaze that he had about an hour ago, and took a step back to give her a once-over.

"Well done, Gilmartin, you've brushed up rather nice."

He tried to offer a smile, but his eager eyes held something deeper than affability, they were steely eyes she had never seen before, on anyone. He was being rather insincere again.

She saw his eyes linger on her changed lips, just briefly, before flicking back up to meet her gaping. She met his eyes coldly.

"Let's just get this over with, shall we?" she snapped, rather assertively, without meaning for it to come out as brusquely as it did.

But she had to remember that this was the man that gave her a black eye. A black eye that was still there, which she had to cover up rather excessively tonight. She didn't realise he was quite hot on her heels as she walked to the front door, grabbing her tatty woollen coat from the banister.

She whisked it on, as well as her wintry patterned snood, without glancing at him. He was stood there, gloves and dark wool coat already in his arm. She took a brief chance to quickly analyse what he was wearing and thought he brushed up nice also. He was wearing a dark suit with just a plain light blue shirt, no tie this time.

It looked like he had combed his hair, more than usual, it appeared less tousled.

"Am I going to get any trouble from you tonight?" She nearly pulled a look of disbelief and outrage at him, at being spoken to like a child or some unruly teenager. She buttoned up her coat rather angrily, a loose thread catching on one of the buttons of her blouse.

She spent half a minute delicately trying to untangle it, only furthering to worsen the situation. Her face heated up with his intense scrutiny and her rising frustration.

He took a cautious step towards her.

"Come here," he spoke, his voice neutral, soft. She twisted away from him sharply, disgusted with him.

"No! Just…leave it! Let's go-"

"You cannot go out-"

"LEAVE IT!" she shouted.

Her face was beetroot red. He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

Why the hell was she blushing?

She felt like she was sixteen again, shy and awkward. His musky cologne was giving her a headache, and she wished she hadn't worn the lipstick. She felt ridiculous. She reckoned her face was not only on fire, but it matched the colour of her lips. She felt his bony hands grab her upper arms before she could grab the cold handle of the front door, and twist her back around, not as rough as she thought it could be, but it wasn't exactly gentle either.

She emitted a loud gasp, prepared for the worst; another smack around the face from him.

To her somewhat elated surprise, his hands were suddenly on her, bent long white fingers working their way at the loose thread that caught onto her blouse.

She felt herself warm up, trying her best not to shake, as she took her time to analyse the top of his head which she could just about see, he was bending quite low. She saw, her eyes drifting, tiny little scars dotted alongside one cheek, in a vertical line. From the edge of his eye, down towards his clean-shaven jaw. Little pecks…she wasn't surprised she hadn't seen them before. They were dents, white near-invisible dents.

They were not acne scars. It was like something had pecked viciously at him. She felt his hands tug at her blouse sharply, and she glanced at him abruptly, afraid she had been analysing for too long.

He straightened up, and then whipped his coat around him. She couldn't help but try to suppress a cold shiver, thinking of his hands on her.

White knuckles, the skin stretching tight over them, nimble skeletal fingers working away at her silk blouse….

She turned around not bothering to wait for him, walking out through the front garden, and into the dark street. The orange streetlights beamed down, and she saw a couple of rowdy students on the other side of the road, dressed up for something or other.

There was a fresh chill in the air, and a slight gust of wind, ruffling her piled-up hair and stinging her face with its iciness. Her ears ached with the sudden cold wind that blew. She suddenly wasn't sure where to turn, or to go, realising it was all in his hands. She saw him close and lock the door, and stare at her as he exited the front garden, eyes unwavering. Or what could be called a front garden.

She waited for him, hands stuffed deep into her pockets, shivering already at the coldness of the approaching night. He lifted a hand out, palm facing sideways, as if to indicate behind her, and she saw an old looking black beamer.

She couldn't help but wrinkle her nose; her father always disliked BMW drivers on the road when she was a child, and now she could uphold that testimony. She had obtained her driving licence rather late, after she had finished her undergraduate course. As she glanced at him, opening the passenger door for her, she realised she might have received his very early, being from overseas. She didn't look at him as she climbed in. It was slightly cluttered inside, and she saw a ticket; he had hired it for a while.

Still, it seemed somewhat uncharacteristic of him to keep an untidy car. There were pieces of lint all over the carpeted floor and bits of gravel on the chair. She swept it off absently, and sat down. It smelt of a strange old tobacco, staleness and disinfectant.

A very strong disinfectant, certainly not Tesco Value. Factory chemicals, almost.

She looked behind her. He had the boot of the car opened. He was faffing around, she concluded, what for she had no clue.

She glanced at the back seats and saw piles of beakers, boxes of plastics that she couldn't make out the shape of, and various unlabeled containers of an unspecified substance. Those substances were clear and of a dark bluish colour. What in the world, was her first thought.

He had papers unkemptly stuffed in the door pockets, and she then inspected the glove compartment. She opened up his address book, and found various numbers on it, but they were written anonymously in spidery illegible handwriting.

No 'Mum' or 'Dad' or 'Home' numbers. No 'Fred' or 'Tom' or 'Dina' friend numbers. She saw a number for the nearest pharmacy company.

She saw another for a chemical factory; recognising the name; the factory was placed just outside her hometown.

Feeling disturbed, she put the address book back quickly. She saw a test tube; the inside of it was covered in some sort of sandy substance, looking like it hadn't been washed in a while. She saw duct tape. A torch and a lighter. She pulled out scrunched up pieces of paper; formulas, numbers and letters bunched together, something she couldn't understand.

She'd never been any good at comprehending mathematics. Grace put it back down, feeling disinterested. She then picked up what seemed to be an American passport. She saw when he was born; he was twenty-eight. Born somewhere she hadn't heard of, sounded like from Southern USA.

He had only two names. His photograph was eerie; it looked like it had been taken quite a long time ago; his fair was flattened, and his glasses were different. He appeared severe, brow frowning, and rather gaunter than usual, cheeks sucked in, like he had been sucking something sour. Unexpectedly she felt the boot of the car door slam hard, the car shaking.

At lightening speed, she threw his passport pack into the glove compartment, and ripped her mobile from her handbag, pretending to have been fiddling on it while he was out there.

"Finished faffing?" she joked genially, slipping the phone back into her bag.

Her heart was pounding, and pounding for reasons unknown to her. He paid no attention to her, and slipped the car keys into the ignition. They drove for fifteen minutes, in complete silence. It was an unpleasant, deadly silence. She saw he was clutching the steering wheel very tightly, and she held her breath.

She felt like turning the radio on, but saw how tightly he was clutching that wheel and decided against it. Grace suddenly felt very uncomfortable with the thought he might have guessed her rootling around in his things.

But he gave me that chance, she thought to herself.

It began to rain, and he switched the windscreen wipers on unconsciously. She watched them pass, back and forward, back and forward. She watched the bright neon and amber lights of the town centre pass by, the people running down the streets from the rain. She didn't recognise where they were, and it innerved her somewhat.

He turned into a car park which was behind a bunch of terraced buildings, dating back to the eighteenth century; they all had a hint of Georgian about them, even the ones which looked to be built in the modern age. It was pissing it down with rain.

He exhaled when he killed the engine, and reached behind him, his arm disappearing her chair. She felt his hand ruffling around in what sounded like pieces of plastic and cardboard. He pulled out an umbrella. She opened the door, really not wanting him to do it for her again. The rain hailed down on her, soaking her, and she pulled up her hood, praying her mascara had not run. He was beside her in an instant, too close.

She tried to walk beside him without touching, but occasionally his elbow would brush against her. She felt sick with nerves. When they halted outside their destination and entered, Grace felt vaguely surprised.

It wasn't an expensive, stuffy restaurant like she had expected it to be, for him to blow his own trumpet about. It was a small little café, but done up very pleasantly.

There was a bar and a door to the kitchen at the back. There were seasonal blackboards on the wallpapered walls stating an array of delicious foods. There were round and oblong-shaped wooden tables all over the large area, with different sets of chairs surrounding them, each with a different vintage-styled cushion. Old, large lamp covers hung down from the ceiling, which was very high in the room; typically old-fashioned.

There were few people, and they didn't look up when they entered. They were lost in their own worlds.

Crane brought her out of her reverie when he shoved his wet umbrella down into the stand rather roughly, and put a hand on the small of her back, gently pushing her forward, to the back of the room. She nearly jumped at the contact, instantly uneasy with him touching her.

She made to walk quite fast, away from his hand, and sat at a small booth. She noticed that the table was rather small, and that he would be facing opposite her, from too close a distance. She felt her awkwardness rise a little again, but pushed it down, trying to absorb the atmosphere. She saw various old photographs of landscapes on the walls, and an antique turquoise coloured clock.

She picked up the menu and saw it was named _The Feston Kitchen. _

"It's really nice in here. Gawd I'm starved," she spoke without really thinking, out loud, to no one in particular.

He shrugged off his coat and hung it on the back of his chair, placing his hard gaze on her finally.

"I assumed it might be somewhere you'd appreciate."

_You trying to get under my skin? _

"I thought you'd take me to some fancy Italian restaurant or something."

He smirked, but his nose wrinkled in disdain.

"I'm not made of money. Besides, this isn't a special occasion."

She slapped the laminated menu down on the wooden surface, rather impatiently, and leaned forward to hiss in his face,

"Then _what _'occasion' is it then?"

She had been close to forming a civilised conversation with him, and he flushed it down the drain. Before he could summon an answer, a waitress sauntered over, asking them brightly what they wanted to drink. He ordered a bottle of red wine, with impassivity in his voice, and the waitress wandered off quickly, as if dismissed.

He didn't say anything when he turned back to face her, surveying her with a quiet intensity. She tried not to crumple under this particular gaze; she should be used to it by now.

She cleared her throat, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear mindlessly, turning her eyes back up to look at him.

"Might as well begin again. Where're you from?"

He pursed his lips, about to open his mouth when the waitress came over with two glasses and a bottle of wine. He watched the waitress attentively when she poured the wine, occasionally flicking his cold eyes back up to Grace, his hands in his lap. The waitress capped the wine, and left.

She saw him swallow, his distinctive laryngeal prominence bobbing up and down once more.

"Gotham."

She had heard of it, briefly in the news a couple of times. She knew it was a crime-ridden city on the east coast of the USA. It looked and sounded like a bloody awful place. She waited a few minutes, waiting for him to continue, but he didn't, just staring at her.

She noticed he didn't speak of his original birthplace, somewhere in the south.

"So why…psycho-pharama-thingummyjig? What do you wanna be when you're older?" she spoke, taking a sip of the spicy wine.

It was strong, and burnt the back of her throat, but warmed her stomach immediately.

He was unflustered by her attempt at a question, albeit a rather informal clumsily-made one at that.

"I was already a Professor at the University. I wanted to go further." She nodded, intrigued but noticed how he used the past tense, including 'wanted to'.

When did his ambition stop? He must have been awfully young for a Professor. Her eyes drifted over his distinguished form. Yes, I bet you had a lot of Dina's pining, her thoughts spoke mordantly. She asked him what he taught, and he replied instantly like an automaton; psychology.

No wonder he acted like a therapist towards her, trying to rootle around in her past, looking for ways to use it against her.

"Are you still a Professor?"

"No."

"Why?" He prickled at her questioning.

She drew back into her seat. Their table was too small, and they were far too close to each other. She could smell his cologne, and it was unnerving; she was beginning to ponder on the subject of her sexual frustration again.

"I wanted to move on," he replied icily.

Some part of her knew he wasn't telling the truth.

"So you're very much into the mind and drugs," she concluded.

He nodded and leaned forward, taking a small sip of his wine, claw-like fingers gripping the glass tightly.

"Yes, drugs. As were you."

She bit the inside of her cheek hard, and tightened her hands together, wringing them a little. He was beginning to take the piss, she thought, tempted to speak it out loud. Grace took another, large gulp from her wine.

"Let sleepin' dogs lie."

Crane lent further forward, his eyes twinkling with something she couldn't make out.

She wasn't sure if he understood her.

"I'm training myself. I want to become a psychiatrist. I need to start somewhere Gilmartin…" She found herself growing incredibly defensive.

She could feel his warm breath drift towards her when he had spoken, landing on her cheek.

"I don't need bloody therapy. There's nothing wrong with my head, Crane."

His nostrils flared a little, and he lent back, taking a large gulp of wine, swallowing it down like he had just swallowed a particular good catch.

"That's what you assume."

Grace felt her buttons beginning to be pressed; perhaps she should press his a little. They were in a public place. She saw a sharp steak knife on the table, and was glad. She had to store it beside her on the leather booth-seat at an opportune moment.

"Last time we had this conversation you gave me a black eye, see?" she pointed at her still-swollen eye that was covered expertly with her foundation.

It still showed however, her eyelid was significantly bigger than the other one. He pursed his lips again, but spoke nothing. They ordered, him ordering for her. She wondered what it was to him; it wasn't a special occasion, it wasn't a date. It was a slow way of him manipulating her.

She thought, for the briefest moment at the time, that perhaps he really was apologetic.

That theory seemed to have rushed out the window.

She had a gourmet burger with smoked bacon and cheesy chips. He had a wild mushroom risotto with parmesan and watercress. She poured herself another glass of wine, sipping it, wiping her thumb over her lipstick mark. She took another glance around the beautiful café, taking it in, trying to enjoy her time here, despite the man she was with.

"So why postgraduate Art?" he asked, startling her a little out of her thoughts.

She felt an oncoming surge of his superciliousness that was going to burst from its dam, now he had asked her this.

"What do you plan to do with such a thing?" he asked again, taking another sip of his wine.

He had nearly finished his glass. He should be careful, she thought. He was supposed to be driving us back.

"I think I want to be an art teacher. But I do it mainly for the fun of it."

He raised his eyebrows as if such a conception was impractical for him. She knew he wasn't very interested though, it was as if he was forcing his politeness out with sheer effort. But he spoke nothing more on the matter. Their food arrived, and she realised her mistake in ordering her burger; how on earth was she supposed to eat this elegantly, and with lipstick on?

She ignored the conventions and picked the thing up in her two hands, biting into it a little savagely, the pieces of the burger falling out a little. He consumed his own food elegantly, but ate like a bird; he only pecked at his food, and did not eat ravenously like she did. She dropped a blob of ketchup down her front. Cursing she dapped her tongue on a napkin and wiped at her left breast, desperately trying to remove the stain. It wouldn't completely remove.

She saw him somewhat amusedly stare at her, eyes trained on her chest. His food was mostly untouched.

"You're not eatin'," she stated at him blandly, lowering her hands. He shook his head, drinking his wine again.

"I'm not very hungry."

"So you take me out, as an apology for hitting me across the face, but refuse to eat and refuse to get to know me?"

He gaped at her, for a moment, but gritted his teeth together. She felt a high rise of frustration ascend in her chest, and she stood up, rattling the table and consequently their cutlery and glasses. Some of the wine spilled out of her glass and onto the table. He stood up as well, and she made to walk around the table, but he blocked her path.

"I need the loo," she stated in an abnormally high voice, trying ever so hard to hold in her tears.

It seemed like she had been doing a lot of it recently, and it was uncharacteristic of her. He placed a claw-like grip on her shoulder and leaned in to speak harshly into her ear.

Her side tickled with his breath. Her arms erupted in goose pimples.

"Do not speak that out loud again, you hear?"

"Please, just pay the bill and go," she began to sniffle. His grip tightened visibly on her shoulder, pressing her skin together, making it ache a little.

"Grace…" he hissed into her, pulling her further into him, his mouth touching the rim of her ear.

A quiver of shock from the unexpected contact swarm throughout her body.

"I don't give a chuff-"

"Everything alright for you?" came a voice seemingly out of nowhere, and he put his arm around her waist, squeezing her into him, pretending to lovingly embrace her.

They twisted to the waitress, who was looking at them charily.

"Yes, it is, thank you," replied Crane hurriedly, brushing her off frostily.

The waitress turned away, knowing she was not wanted or even appreciated. He gave Grace a little push, and sat back down, wiping his mouth with his napkin. Grace took shaky steps up a few stairs at the back of the café, and turned left down a painted white corridor and into the ladies.

The bathroom was wallpapered, printed with old-fashioned-looking photographs of women on the beach, the fashion dated around 1950. There was faint music playing in the background, and it was devoid of other women. There was a strong lemony smell, and she splashed her face with water twice. She slipped out her lipstick from her skirt pocket and re-applied it.

She stared at herself for a long time in the mirror, before adjusting her hair and walking back out to face the man she was beginning to loathe.

Grace felt somewhat stronger. When she sat back down, her first meal was gone, and in front of her sat a chocolate moose decorated with a black cherry and a mint leaf. She glanced back up to him warily, seeing he had no pudding either. She couldn't help but smile a little, feeling like a child. Pudding had always been her favourite, and shyly she picked up her spoon and began to eat it, awfully aware of him watching her. He was enjoying making her feel rather uncomfortable, he'd been enjoying it right from the start, but now he was not analysing her, and his eyes glazed over with a different sort of examination.

She was suddenly aware of him looking at her as a man will look at a woman – the hair gathered off her long neck and into a loose chignon, the plump redness of her lips, and the swell of her breasts underneath her creamy silk blouse.

She felt her face warm underneath his steady gaze, but tried to shrug the intense feeling off of her, that he was producing. The moose was nothing like she had ever had before.

She had an incredibly sweet tooth, and by the time she finished it, she nearly forgot about her surroundings, and that Crane was sat there, watching her, his face blank. She wiped the corners of her mouth, smacking her lips.

"I love afters," she said to no one in particular.

As a child, she'd never had puddings after dinner. Her parents were never very keen on sweet things, and Christmas seemed to be the only occasion they splashed out, probably only for her. It felt somewhat special now to be bought one in a pleasant café or restaurant. He just continued to sit there, pursing his lips, looking as if he was forming a horrible plan in his mind.

She let out a long sigh.

"Look, Crane. I know what this is about. I won't raised ont' darn train."

He blankly stared at her, not understanding and absently poured himself another glass of one. She wondered how strong his alcoholic threshold was. Luckily for her it was pretty strong, but unluckily it was very intolerant when it came to wine.

He sipped down a large gulp of wine, and she thought she saw his eyes waver, for the first time. He put the glass back down.

"Tell me, I have been wondering for a long time, Grace – what is it that you fear?"

She drew her brows together, thinking it was an overtly odd question. Inherently a personal one at that though. The sly, polished bent bastard had more glasses of wine that she had seen him pour; he had slurred the word fear. Either he was drunk or he liked to slur the word fear for effect.

The restaurant seemed to grow with more people as the evening disappeared into night. He was leaning forward; his interest peaked, his eyes burning with a morbid curiosity.

"What do you mean?" she asked, trying to act casually, trying to not let him affect her.

"It is a simple question."

"Fear? I hardly think so. You mean – a phobia? Like, 'am I scared of spiders'? Or fear of – let's say a high electricity bill?"

Grace paused for a moment, thinking on her statement, and the sides of her mouth crooked up into a smile, and she suddenly couldn't hold her laughter in any more. Unbeknownst to her, his face had changed from interested, to contemptuous, but once her gaze flicked back to him, it changed into one of silent derision. He then pulled a garish smile, and sported a laugh, one that could rival hers.

She noticed this immediately, and stopped. She watched him laugh forcibly at her; it was disconcerting.

"You are amusing. But beyond the pale. A fear, Grace. Any fear. Now I wouldn't say a bill necessarily came to my mind, but I applaud you for your efforts. Let me give you some suggestions; the dark? Small spaces? Water?"

He was trying to make her feel stupid again. Yet in the deepest tresses and pits of her mind, something told her she should lie to him. She began to realise that letting him know anything about herself might just be the worst mistake she would ever make. His eyes were hungry, something rather indescribable to her. She hardly wanted him to know that she was genuinely frightened of him.

And she certainly didn't want him to know that her greatest fear was returning to her addiction and losing her parents.

Ever since she lost her grandmother four years ago, watching the lady pass away in front of her, she realised she was constantly, and unconsciously, on the verge of anxiety about the death of her family – not herself, but her family. She knew that if her parents died she would be left with no one – only vague friends here and there.

Her father's family were on the other side of the globe, and they hadn't spoken for a long time. Her grandmother divorced from her husband several years ago and nothing more was heard about him, other than he had a croft up in Scotland.

So she decided to tell Crane about a so-called 'fear' – one that had never really manifested.

"Well, I guess I don't like spiders very much. Really hate them in fact."

She spoke casually, taking the last bite of her chocolate moose, savouring the rich, glorious taste, the smoothness of it sticking to the roof of her mouth. He glared at her, and out of the blue, this ferocious gaze fell across his face, but it fell away, when he pulled that terrible toothy smile and brought the edge of the wine to his lips.

For a moment when she had begun to speak, his eyes grew alarmingly wide, absorbing every atom of her being.

She saw his glass slipped a little in his hands.

"Oh really," he said conversationally, not believing her in the slightest. She nodded, as if to encourage him.

"Yeah, completely terrified to be honest. Go cold and shivery whenever I see one."

He pulled a taut smile again. When he spoke his next sentence, she couldn't see his eyes. He had turned his head in such a way that the light from the overhanging lamps caught off his lenses. It was like looking at someone who was wearing sunglasses; you weren't sure where to look.

She chose a particular spot on his cheek, a small mole on the slant of his high cheekbone.

"You know what; I dislike a number of things also. One probably could be liars."

'Probably?' she echoed in her head.

"I thought we were talking about fears."

"You mentioned an antipathy, not a fear. Stop playing a game with me, because you won't win. Avoided my question, did you not?"

She pursed her lips, tightly, noticing her mistake, of using 'hate' instead of 'afraid.' He was being too thorough. She was not going to be a swooning Dina, even though properly looking at him; not very many women would immediately turn their heads. He had a very lanky frame, as if he wasn't sure what to do with the expanse of his arms and legs, and those frames really didn't capture him as a light-hearted type, he looked fervently serious continuously.

She was not going to pay some lovesick homage to him, lap him up like a puppy. All she could muster about him was that he was insufferably and arrogantly intelligent, with a cold heart and a head to match.

She wondered what tortured childhood he had to make him like his, or perhaps his parents were similar and it had rubbed off. She swallowed what fear she had and turned to speak in a fairly loud voice.

"You know what; I have a quote for you, Crane. And it goes like this; it is funny that men who are supposed to be scientific, cannot realise the basic principles of physics; that action and reaction are equal and opposite, the when you persecute people you always rouse them to be strong. Ring any bells?"

He just sat there, looking at her aghast. She thought she had stunned him into silence, and was quite astonished with herself.

He still had not spoken after a minute.

"Gertrude Stein. I learnt about her when studying history of art. Guess my art degree is of somewhat importance after all. Might want to think about that one next time you try to antagonise me into submission."

She saw the skin over his knuckles visibly tighten, and her heart skipped several beats, her eyes darting from his to his knuckles, flashing back and forth. She felt she had probably made a huge mistake, this was sure going to antagonise him, and she was fed up of being the sweeper of the eggshells she kept walking on.

But his reaction was the complete opposite of what she was expecting.

Grace felt she had been very close to feeling another one of his physical assaults on her, despite the public setting. She felt a sickening feeling of knowing that fearing him would only entice him, and couldn't work out why. She put her hands in her lap, and noticed they were visibly sticky with sweat.

His eyes drifted all over her, without even blinking; it was the most terrible glance he had given her yet.

Then, he burst out laughing. It was so shrill, nearly maniacal, that the people around them glanced at them, in puzzlement. He stopped abruptly, and she noticed his eyes were still wide, his jaw grinding, his hands clutched so tightly that the skin might've ripped open with the tightness.

"I haven't even the faintest idea what you're getting at, Gilmartin." She scowled at him, feeling fed up.

"It means that the more you terrorise me, the more I want to strengthen my resolve to fight back."

His false humorous look was immediately replaced by an unfriendly one.

"Are you trying to see how far you can push me?" he coldly asked.

Suddenly a wave of emotion washed over her, and she realised this was reality, not some game. She couldn't believe this was her own housemate that she was waging war with; it had been going on ever since the first day. But she had no time for people like him, and didn't want to be another sufferer under his thumb. She thought he probably had a lot of people under his thumb.

She was sitting here, with an aloof housemate, who had been nothing but unkind to her since she first moved in, with hardly any money and her parents had temporarily cut her off. In return, she just sighed, and wiped her mouth with a napkin. She avoided his eyes, taking her phone out of her bag, and replying to Lisa's text; something about a night out soon.

God, she needed to go on a night out and get drunk, so very, very drunk. She ignored him, avoiding his gaze the entire time he paid for the food.

She couldn't help but feel somewhat appreciation for him, as she watched him pay for the meal, tapping his pin on the handheld machine for credit cards. The waitress had offered them coffee, but he had cut her off churlishly. Grace noticed his satisfied response in scaring the waitress away, his ominous eyes wandering over the waitress's retreating form in appreciation.

Then her gratitude to him dropped from her like an atom bomb and she began to ignore him again. He felt her staring and caught it.

"All postgraduates are invited to an informal gathering tomorrow evening."

"Yeah you told me already. I couldn't give a…a what? Rat's arse, Crane."

"What is it with you, Grace?"

She snapped her attention back to him, her eyes having drifted. She stared at him, frowning in confusion. He had almost asked it sincerely, but to him it had been more a rhetoric question, one that might need psychological probing. He decided to probe, after all, like poking the outside of a fragile object which might burst and spill at any moment.

"What is truly getting at you? It seems like something is slowly eating away at you, inside of you, like a parasite. What made you like you were, and now? What dragged you into drugs? What made you a sore loser? Why are you taking this postgraduate later than usual?"

Tears spilled out of her eyes. He sat back, satisfied, seeing how remarkable and easy it was to poke the balloon and let it pop, loudly, and stuffed his wallet in the side pocket of his blazer.

He ignored her tears.

Grace impassively slipped her coat on, wrapping tightly around her, the tears rolling all the way down her cheeks and collecting at the base of her chin. He didn't leave a tip on the table, taking cold advantage of the British custom; tipping here wasn't like it was back in the US, but for an established place it was polite to do so. She slung her handbag with the long strap over her body and promptly walked out of the café, not bothering to look back at him, or even wait for him.

The rain had stopped, thankfully, when she exited the café, and now there was only a chilly dampness in the air, and the lights of the town centre reflected off the puddles in the street. She didn't turn towards the car park, and began to walk down the street, not caring what he did. Her mind was on other things, and the tears just kept falling. His words undeniably had hit a sore spot.

He caught up with her though, his long gangly legs serving him well. He had apparently forgotten his umbrella.

"Parking lot is the other way," he spoke hoarsely to her, and she shook her head.

"I think I might walk home. Thanks for the dinner. Really made up for your apology. Really made it up…I mean, feel free to blacken the other eye. Could be an art project for me…"

He rolled his eyes behind her back, and grabbed her wrist tightly, pulling her back towards the car park behind the café. Deciding she wasn't in the mood for fighting him, she let him drag her all the way back to his car that sat in the middle of the now packed lot.

She felt her pulse throbbing under his hand; his grip was so firm it was making the blood rise to the surface. He could feel her pulse under his grasp, disappointingly it was rather slow. She clambered into the car awkwardly, slamming the door and staring out the front window impassively.

She felt life was drained out of her today. Usually her resolve was firmer, but this evening it seemed to slip away from her bleakly. Tomorrow, she confirmed. Usually sleeping on it did the trick. He was tapping his fingers impatiently on the wheel as they waited at a set of traffic lights once they got going.

She noticed how he sometimes forgot to change gear, the car grunting in angry response; probably used to automatic cars.

"It was a nice place, I wouldn't mind going there again," she said out loud, more to herself than him, but it had given him an entirely different impression. Still, he spoke nothing.

She switched on the radio, and he ignored it, lost in his own thoughts. His fingers kept drumming on the wheel, over and over again, white fingers resembling spiders, while his other hand was pressed against his mouth in thought, pondering and pondering. The lights changed and he had to register it before remembering to let go of the handbrake and accelerate the vehicle.

"Where is this gathering?" she asked, sounding morose.

He cleared his throat, irritated at being driven out of his intense thoughts.

"It's at a community hall, downtown."

What is downtown, she thought.

"Could you give me a lift if I went? What time does it start?" He turned to look at her.

"It starts at eight pm."

He said nothing more and ignored her request.

Ten minutes later, they arrived back at the house, and she made a move to get out of the car. He followed suit, and she felt immediately awkward, as she waited for him to catch up with her; she had forgotten her house keys.

He patted his pockets as he ambled up to her, for the first time she noticed a tiny, almost slight limp in his step, his right leg, below the knee joint seemed to be giving him trouble.

He rootled around in his great coat, becoming quickly irritated at not being able to find his keys. She set her eyes on him, and suddenly felt a hint of pining; he was distinctly male, and despite every fibre of her body loathing him, she was drawn to him in that brief moment simply because she felt lost and desolate.

She once read in a novel, that if you stand close to a man, ever so close without touching, he will infallibly kiss you after a moment or so.

Now Jonathan Crane was an entirely different kettle of fish.

Worth a try, however, even though she at first doubted this serendipity. She leaned closer, nearly pressing against him. He at last managed to find his keys, but noticed her unusual closeness. When he finally turned around, she caught him in her gaze. There was a tight frown that fell over his face, but probably unthinkingly, his eyes flicked down to her red mouth, and away again. He jammed the key into the door and kicked it open.

He didn't even hang his coat up, and walked all the way upstairs to the attic. She couldn't help but smile, knowing she had, briefly, for a second or two, an effect on him.

A small, secret smile.

/

He sat in the webbed shadows of the attic, his hands in his hair in frustration.

He stared down at his formula charts. He could not get it to work in the way he wanted it to. The last test had not lasted long enough.

It had worked alright, but for not long enough. There were various spillages all over his own erected wooden floors, made out of planks within the room.

He always worked far into the night, sometimes until four in the morning. He felt a deep despair, a certain frustration that could only melt into unending anger. He had exposed himself so many times, mostly accidentally, to his own toxins, but he was quickly becoming immune to them.

It depressed him like nothing else.

He tried to think, to work out something new. Perhaps he needed something else in his formula, something else entirely. How could he change it, though? He'd worked with these particular components for some time now. But at the moment the insufferable girl was on his mind, not allowing him to think.

If only he could use her, he desperately needed someone to test it on. He thought about the physical violence that had befallen the other night.

He thought about that contusion he had given her, the colours melding into each other over her white face. He was impartial to physical violence; mostly he depended on the mind and its manipulation. He didn't have any idea what he had hit her that night.

She had got to him, though, talking about his burn scar.

No one had ever got that far with him before; and he had let her do it again this night, when he was supposed to be repressing her. How could he ever silence her?

Once upon a time people at school teased him relentlessly, earning him a name that stuck. But once he arrived at the University, people feared him.

They wouldn't stand up to him, and the same continued, until he ended up with her as a housemate. She had no idea; she was naïve to him. She didn't know the evils and fear that the world possessed.

He'd have to make her find out.

/

**Note**: The following place where Crane takes Grace to was inspired by a café, which is close to where I live. There is a website, but fanfiction just won't let me put it on here, no matter what I do -.- Just type 'Gower Kitchen' in Google.

Grace's colloquialism 'I won't raised ont' darn train' translates into 'I wasn't raised on the down train, meaning 'I'm not stupid.' It's a Yorkshire phrase, where Grace hails from.

The two poems Grace thinks of in the shower are by Sylvia Plath, the first 'Mirror' and the second 'An Appearance.'

Last note, originally I was going to make this a very long chapter, but there is much to write still, and I want to write it the best I can and not rush. So you readers can have this lil' slice :)


	9. Nightmare

**A/N; **

**Just to let you know I was listening to Diana Ross for the first half of this chapter. **

**Flipping heck that woman is a goddess. **

**Also a lot of inspiration I draw from Daphne Du Maurier, especially her novel 'Jamaica Inn.' I urge you to read it; it's a very gripping read. **

**By the way I do not romanticise violence in any shape or form whatsoever and I am strongly against it. I am using it only for fictional purposes.**

**Thank you lovelies for reading. I hope you enjoy.**

**/**

The day passed rather uneventfully, and it was that brisk, icy cold that ran through the air, a harsh remembrance of January weather which chilled Grace Gilmartin to the bone.

Throughout the night, the wind had rushed through the house, rattling the window panes, and Grace from the warmth of her bed, could hear garbage rolling about out the back; probably the mop bucket on the balcony had blown over.

Grace spent most of the day in the arts centre, drawing bits and pieces, on her own. Lisa was nowhere to be found; no matter how many times Grace tried to contact her. Her heart fell, like a deflated balloon. There was something unalterably depressing sitting in a nearly empty room, on campus, in the afternoon.

She couldn't help but feel, now, with the absence of the lively Lisa, deflated more than ever. The only thought that kept her going, was that as soon as she finished, she was going to make blueberry muffins when she got home.

It was beginning to terrify her that art was not interesting her anymore.

She had drawn countless drawings of the same thing, in different shades and tones. She knew Lisa was going to the postgraduate get-together this evening; and she still didn't know how she was going to get there.

She didn't even know why she was going.

When the clock reached five, and the sky was darkening swiftly, she packed up her things, charcoal all over her hands. The day quickly came to a close, as she walked back through the darkness of the park, back home. Several lamps were out in the park, and if she looked to her right, all she could see was pure darkness. A cold shudder coursed though her, and she shivered under her threadbare grey woollen coat.

As she walked briskly through the park, up and down the gravelly dips, she briefly thought of Jonathan Crane and what his boyhood must have been, and how he grew up crossways, with the bloom blown out of him by the harsh wind of life.

The dark night was intrinsically dismal, but she felt a surge of apprehension, one that almost spelt anticipation at tonight's postgraduate evening. She wasn't even sure why there was an evening-do. It wasn't Oxford for God's sake.

Only Crane would have the satisfaction of inviting her to something formal and swanky and probably patronise her in his usual expertise manner.

She climbed the hill back to her house, breathing hard as she reached the top of the hill, her lungs struggling to take in the correct amount of air, the backs of her legs throbbing. The skies opened as soon before she got to the house, and was drenched in seconds.

Her fingers, bony and trembling tried to find the right key before shoving it into the door, cursing. Her coat was soaked through and through, her hair plastered to her face, mascara probably streaked down her cheeks. It was dark inside, and it didn't surprise her very much.

She wanted to roll her eyes – Crane seemed to like shrouding the house in darkness, setting a scene of mystery and trepidation.

Checking her watch, just about seeing the hand in the shred of light in the hallway,

she suddenly heard muffled voices. They were murmuring, softly, and the kitchen door, normally propped open, was tightly shut. She dropped her holdall on the floor, which made a loud echo throughout the hallway, and peeled her wet coat off. Even her cardigan and shirt underneath were soaked.

Perhaps it was time to delve into her savings and buy a new coat.

She hung the wet tattered thing on the end of the banister, and suddenly the kitchen door whooshed open, making her jump in the process. Instead of seeing a lofty, lanky figure she saw a sleek shorter figure with shiny hair. Grace's heart fell at the sight of Dina. She went to pick her holdall back up, making a beeline for the stairs, but Dina already called her.

"Gracie, you coming to the do?"

As she walked down the darkened hallway, her heels clicking a little on the wooden floor, Dina switched the light on casting her endearing appearance into stark brightness.

She wore a sleek black dress that fitted tightly against her body, her large eyes accentuated by shapely eyebrows, her long wavy hair hanging down her torso. Grace kept walking up the stairs, wanting to cuddle herself to sleep.

"Um, yeah," she said uninterestedly, reaching the top of the stairs.

"Great! We're leaving in an hour."

Grace ignored her, and entered her room, to begin the long process of beautifying herself for this evening; it was going to be an inexplicably teeth-grinding experience.

She glanced at herself in the mirror briefly, her eyes wide, taking in her pale face, cheeks stung rosy by the unkind wind, her mascara around her eyes again, but not down her cheeks. Her bruise that surrounded her eye had died down a little, but it was still there, still reminding her of Crane's brief, unexplained viciousness.

He apologised to her, and taken her out to dinner, but had been cold and callous, and not shown any kind of compassion. It seemed like he was trying to bend her to his will, rather than really show any understanding, any remorse for hitting her.

She bit her tongue in anger and showered.

She dried her hair, blowing the hairdryer over her cold arms and legs, sitting in just her bra and knickers in front of the mirror, contemplating her body; the downward curve of her breasts sitting dully in her bra, the slope of her stomach, rolled a little as she sat inwardly, her unshaved legs and the numerous tiny pin-prick lilac-white scars over her thighs, her forearms and hips.

Her body looked dead.

She felt dead inside.

She felt tremendously ugly and unwanted, after seeing Dina, who was both outwardly and inwardly confident.

She didn't believe Crane when he told her straight that Dina wasn't his girlfriend. She thought he took relationships like he would a contract. How wrong she'd turn out to be.

She went through her wardrobe dismally. She picked out her chiffon blouse from the wash and quickly ironed it. She realised she would have to wear the same thing she did when she did dining with Crane.

Her heart fell further. She sprayed herself with a great abundance of perfume hoping to discard the fact the clothes were unwashed, but she knew Crane would just see straight through her and wrinkle that nose of his. She suddenly heard voices in the hallway, combined whiny and deep voices echoing.

She didn't know what to do with her hair, it hung limply. She heard Dina calling her name, almost warily. She half-pulled it back, twisting it into an elegant loop at the knot of her skull. She pulled out a pair of kitten heels, the only pair she ever owned. They were suede and black.

She decided to apply lipstick again, wanting to show Crane she wasn't wearing it for him; in fact perhaps it was good she was wearing this certain outfit again. She wasn't trying to please him, as Dina undeniably was. Grace exited, slamming her door behind her, and steadily walked down the stairs, thinking perhaps she shouldn't have worn her heels after all.

Dina was smiling sheepishly, rather elegant in the highlights from the streetlights streaming in, while Crane's eyes seemed to glow in the dark, his dark brow furrowed, eyes unwavering, even when Dina turned round to gaze at him expectantly.

She felt that walking down those steep, unhoovered, carpeted stairs was the longest of her life, and she was thankful it was dark within the hallway once more.

She ignored Crane, smiling uncharacteristically at Dina. Dina beamed back at her, and Crane stepped aside, making way first for Dina, then for Grace.

Grace ignored him as she walked past him, but as soon as she passed him, he rounded behind her, nearly walking into her. He was dressed in a charcoal suit once again, in shiny brogues, this time with a striped dull brown tie. The only thing she sensed different this time was his cologne had changed. Hm.

She wasn't sure what to think of that, but she didn't want to psychoanalyse either.

Grace purposely climbed into the back of his car, shuffling along the boxes and bits of plastic.

She strapped herself in. The traffic was notorious on the roads; it was rush hour. Thankfully the rain had ceased for now. They passed down small streets with many parked cars, up and down hills, stopping and starting because of traffic.

As soon as Crane released the handbrake again, his eyes flicking between the woman in the back and the busy road, Grace Gilmartin poked around in the back of his car.

She had an inkling he was carefully watching her, while Dina made idle chatter.

Crane spoke nothing, other than nodded and 'hmmed'. Grace tried not to move her torso or legs, she reached inside the back pocket of the chair, and rootled around.

A lot of paper, a crinkling of cellophane. She tried not to bite her lip at the loud noise. She looked at all the beakers and saw a Pyrex jar on the floor. The jars containing the dark bluish substance had been removed. She then realised, he was a smart man, and knew someone would be travelling in the back of his car; he studied psychopharmacology, naturally he would have equipment of a scientific kind.

But in his car?

She rootled around in the back pocket further, pricking her finger on something sharp, emitting a soft gasp.

When she attempted to pull out the many papers in the pocket, the car suddenly lurched forward, and her forehead connected with the back of the chair.

Dina turned around, obviously feeling the impact.

"You okay, Gracie?"

Grace saw a tiny pin prick mark on the side of her index finger, the blood slowly oozing out.

She glanced up, very slowly, trying not to look at the rear view mirror, but it was impossible not to, when his eyes were so very obviously gazing at her, absorbing her reaction. Her eyes lifted up, and stared at him straight in the mirror.

It had been a needle; she was sure.

He seemed to speed up the rest of the way, despite the traffic; stopping and starting, lurching them back and forward in their seats. By the time they arrived in the car park, Grace managed to staunch the bleeding, praying there had been nothing in the needle, praying it was unused, wondering why it hadn't been capped.

All she could hear was the thumping of her heart; he was up to something, she knew it.

His eyes were constantly on her.

He waited for her, even when Dina began to walk off. She purposely took her time, but he wasn't leaving. He waited patiently, but his gaze was burning with a certain kind of fire. She hurriedly walked away from him, her breathing becoming faster, as she headed up the stairs towards the entrance of the stony building.

It was a plain, smooth stony building, nothing of the elegant about it, square and sharp against the darkened sky, grey stone, like the grey town.

He was hot on her heels behind her, and her heels clacked against the gravelly steps, towards the light of the reception ahead of them.

Dina was ahead, already chatting to a pair of students dressed in finery. Inside Grace was greeted by a far more pleasant architecture inside than outside, with a high ceiling, a chandelier, as modest as it could be, hanging down. They were in a long hall, flanked either side with panelled wood, no paintings framed on the wall. She trod on the rather threadbare rug, woven with an intricate pattern, stepped and dripped on with rainwater for the past fifty years.

She stopped to wait with Dina; unsure of what she was doing, what the hell was going on. Was it just a dinner? Or was it stand around with cocktails kind of 'do'?

Crane's sudden, unwanted hand was on the small of her back, gently pushing her towards a large arched wooden door on her left.

"She'll catch up…" he murmured from behind her.

She made to walk faster, wanting nothing more to get away from his spidery hand. The room was less modest than the hallway, decorated with large William Turner-like landscape paintings around the very-oblong shaped room. It was carpeted, and the colour was hideous; a deep red bordering on burgundy.

There were long mahogany tables lining around the room, with assortments of food on them, and the room was fairly packed with people. They took no notice of her stumbling into the room, in order to get away from her obtrusive housemate. She heard her name being called, from the other side of the room, and as she glanced around, noticing that Crane had not left her side yet.

Over the heads of the various students, both old and young alike, Lisa's long blonde hair appeared out of nowhere as she nudged aside a rather hunched old man with leather-like skin.

"Alright, love, how's it goin," she spoke in her sing-song Welsh Valleys accent.

She had a pint of beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

She wore a mini skirt that clung to her thin thighs, a slim blue turtleneck and her denim jacket.

Grace felt like a bumbling nervous school teacher next to her; she had decided to wear her glasses this evening. Her tattered wet coat was still on her. Lisa carried an air of undeniably sexy.

"You can smoke in here?" she asked.

Lisa shrugged nonchalantly and turned to observe Crane, her eyes cascading up and down his slim form.

"Alright, lanky?"

Grace didn't dare turn to glance at Crane, but he stayed stock still. She supposed he didn't appreciate the adjective. Lisa still stared at Crane, challenging him, as she took a drag from her cigarette and blew the smoke directly into his face. Grace, unconsciously glanced at him, but the man didn't even blink.

Dina walked up beside him, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder, but he didn't even blink at that.

Dina smiled very brightly.

"Wow, Lisa, you look incredible!" Lisa rolled her eyes towards Dina.

"You're insincere. I like that."

Dina's smile dropped like a boulder edging off an eroding cliff; it was gone as soon as it was there. She spoke nothing, and turned to glance at Crane, who had lost interest in Lisa, and was roving his eyes around the crowd, scanning for something.

Dina didn't bother to look at Lisa anymore, and tried to pull Crane away, but he simply wasn't budging.

A couple of middle-aged men sauntered up to them, wine swirling around in their glasses.

"Jonathan, I wanted to congratulate you on your last seminar; it was extremely interesting, not to say beneficial," spoke the first, a rather handsome balding man with long arms and a suit that didn't quite fit him.

Lisa and Grace watched the conversation with curiosity, Lisa passing Grace certain cynical looks from time to time. Crane thanked the man stiffly, his voice hitting a new wave of coldness.

He wasn't sure where to put his long arms and hands, and awkwardly put them behind his back, making him stand taller than ever. He was at least an inch over six feet.

"Beneficial to those psychology students anyway," began the other man, a shorter younger counterpart, who was swinging his glass about a little too recklessly.

"I think you might have scared them off, Crane!"

Crane barked out a stiff laugh, and Grace watched him, as the others didn't. A frown enveloped on her face. His eyes had widened, widened a little too much, and the skin around his eyes didn't crinkle as usual when laughing. She felt disturbed by his behaviour.

The two men chatted for a little while longer, telling Crane how much they admired his 'new ideas' on psychoanalysis, which paid particular attention to the emotion of fear, and how it develops, why, and why due to learning, does it manifest, in few cases, as irrational.

Crane spoke of how he was particularly intrigued by people who suffered from certain disorders, such as having a low level of cortisol in the blood, or the adrenal glands which don't produce sufficient hormones and how it affects their experience to fear.

Grace, feeling immediately sick, turned away. The only sound she could hear was the thumping of her heart. Lisa not noticing whispered in her ear;

_Dina looks like a rancid Barbie. Oi. You alright, mate? _

Grace snapped back her attention to the situation at hand.

Lisa had her hand on her arms.

"Is she okay?" Grace heard Dina's whiny voice sound out.

Grace felt the piercing eyes of Crane, and decided not to feel nauseous anymore, she had to be strong in front of him. How on earth did he know?

She had suffered from Addison's disease a few years ago, right after her disgusting addiction. She had caught it from an infection; sharing needles. She had been ill for a year, unable to work, but she had exactly what he had described; adrenal glands which could not produce the right hormones. She had been all over the place; she'd been in and out of the hospital for a few months.

It hadn't come to her mind until now.

She'd suffered from psychosis, from increased anxiety and fear. He could, never, ever find out. The disease had left her body. It alarmed her, now, what he could do, what uncanny things he had spoken. He had all that equipment in his car. Lisa put an arm around her, bringing her sharply back in reality.

It was a ridiculous thought; she was becoming overly paranoid about him. She relaxed, slumping her shoulders forward. Dina's voice resonated again.

"Perhaps she's stressed, you look really tired, Gracie."

Dina turned around, walked to the nearest buffet table, and brought back some kind of cheesecake; when Grace stared at it dumbfounded, Dina said it was chocolate raspberry.

"Women like sweet things, when, you know, they're hormonal."

No patronising statement could be better underscored.

Grace snatched from her hands, not liking this evening at all. She stuffed the cheesecake into her mouth, smearing her lipstick, and feeling strangely indifferent. Crane voice rasped.

"Well what does that make me?"

Lisa raised her eyebrows dramatically, folding her arms, and pushing the tip of her tongue against her cheek. It was, apparently, his attempt at a joke, but it came out horribly.

Dina tried to laugh.

"Gay," spoke Lisa instead, waspishly.

She grabbed Grace's sleeve roughly, and pulled them away from the two people, Lisa making a beeline for the back of the room, beside a gorgeous ornate black fireplace.

"Christ that was a major ballache. What utter bellends."

Grace's heart rate managed to slow right down, her blood pressure at level again. It had been merely a pain in the backside, something to get over, her disease.

She was neither mentally nor physically scarred by the situation. She wasn't the lost, scared girl with a dreadful difficult past, and wasn't strong enough to hold herself through. That wasn't her, and it wasn't her story. Somehow, she was glad that Crane just knew about her heroin addiction than her disease.

The lights were fairly dim in the room as Grace steadily drank more and more, keeping it at a slow pace.

She avoided speaking to anyone else, occasionally seeing some recognisable people from her department, although none of the other art students in her class were present; they probably thought it was a frivolous waste of time, which it was.

She saw her lecturer, Heather Lugh, chatting away to a rather frightened-looking man in a drooping bow tie, his wine glass shaking within his hand.

The crowd within the fairly small room began to thicken, as the night grew darker, and the minutes ticked away, bringing the lower numbers towards the higher numbers within time. Lisa, who had helped herself to numerous pints of beer, quickly became drunk. She had clung onto Grace for a while, pointing out at other people and making a mockery of them, before catching the eye of some dark-haired stranger at the back of the room, and ambling off.

Sooner or later, other people joined this kind of behaviour, and no one noticed that Lisa Redmond was hollering noisily and waving her arms about in windmill fashion.

Grace took her reserved place at the back of the room, once again beside the ornate fireplace, sighing through her nose, and tasting the rather cheap wine from her cracked wine glass.

Despite her ruffled appearance, her aggravation with Crane, and probably with Lisa for getting so drunk, she enjoyed the warmth of the room and its pleasantness. It was a stuffy atmosphere; full of conceited professors and people with false morals and ideas, but it was also full of people like her; students who had walked through their various situations and had come out smiling, ready to learn like her because they simply wanted to.

Grace's eyes drifted around, the wine slowly enveloping her. Lisa was ambling back towards her, flailing her arms about wildly, her legs shuffling to and fro; Diana Ross's _Upside Down_ had flipped on.

Grace felt the moment enshrine her.

She felt like she had been lying in a coffin for the past week and her other half was furiously kicking it, urging her to get out.

Setting down her glass on the nearest table, she danced with Lisa, her shoulders rolling, arms waving, her legs bending and hips swinging. Lisa twirled her around.

Grace felt her head swirl with the music, oblivious to the people around her. Lisa didn't move to the music very well, clearly intoxicated. In that moment, she felt perpetually cheerful, dancing with this girl who had no qualms about anything. Other people began to take this as a hint to let loose their insecurities and stiff upper lip-ness.

It was mainly the younger people, the elderly and middle-aged standing beside the buffet tables, pretending not to notice. Grace and Lisa danced for the entire duration of the song, Grace letting go of her shyness and inhibitions; especially her worries about her awful housemate. She couldn't give two damns if he was watching and wrinkling his nose.

She just could _feel_ his gaze on her.

So she moved seductively.

Lisa, sensing Grace's boastful dancing, joined in the seductive showing. The room was becoming a haze of blur and moving figures with the taste of alcohol thick in the air.

In the back of her mind, she wondered what this Postgrad meeting was for. Perhaps it was to jeer at one another; hold noses up high; the snot-nosed toffs, she scoffed, stopping once Lisa was wheeled off by a familiar blonde guy.

Perhaps it was an introductory thing; for people to get to know each other talk about their subjects. She didn't really believe that one either.

Her eyes moved back towards Lisa, towards a mass of straight blonde hair hanging down a denim jacket. The blonde guy's hands were on her hips. Grace picked up a small sausage roll and munched on it hungrily, sipping a small glass of wine, before going back for her third and fourth.

By the time Jonathan Crane had slunk up to her like a panther, she had stuffed herself with the entire platter of sausage rolls, leaving just a pile of pastry crumbs. The flakes of the pastry were caked a little on her cheeks, and on her fingers. She threw her hands together, patting them off, before she realised Crane had been watching her, with an amused smirk.

He was like the panther ready to strike.

"Highly entertaining," he spoke conversationally, taking a sip of what looked like straight Scotch whiskey.

She ignored his scorn, and reached for the bowl of crisps, stuffing them into her face. Boy, she was hungry. Must be the wine; it went to her head quicker than she thought.

She seemed to always crave crisps when drunk.

She wiped her mouth, thinking about what an animal she appeared. She knew he was looking at her; up and down, giving her the once over, knowing and acknowledging the fact that she was wearing the same thing as she did last night.

She munched loudly on her crisps to irk him, but only succeeded in making him smile that usual uncanny smile like he did. The light of the room was dimmed in the area of the room they stood in, and the shadows caught off his cheekbones eerily.

"Have I succeeded in altering your heart rate, Grace?"

She pretended to be immersed in munching on her food, and swallowed it down, her wine glass retaking its rightful place in her hand.

Creepy question time.

Someone had started to replay Diana Ross.

"When a man tries so hard to find ways of making himself feared, he always finds ways of making himself hated first."

She slowly became less intimidated by him than earlier, probably because the good fortune of wine that was swirling gloriously in her system. She glanced over at him, and it looked like he was trying to keep himself composed. He smiled once more, flashing his teeth, and took a large sip of his whiskey.

She felt more irritated, than anything, the apprehension blown away as well as her fear.

"Is that another quote?" he drawled.

She hadn't noticed, but he was standing closer to her now.

"Yep," she replied shortly, trying to not let his close presence deter her; she knew what he was doing, what his little plan was.

She became more and more pissed off as she stood there, in the aged fortress of stiff-masculinity, the men swirling their drinks and smoking their cigarettes.

"That's a very clever quote," he spoke, leaning down to talk in her ear.

She flinched a little.

"It's from _Persian Letters_ if you're interested. Do you _always_ have to loom over me, Crane?"

She decided to address the situation at hand. He was doing exactly that. His face changed from a smirk to expressionless.

She wasn't sure which one was worse. Then he emitted a small laugh, pushing his glasses further up his nose.

"You know they used to call me 'Scarecrow' at school," he spoke, staring intensely at her.

She raised her eyebrows sceptically, perturbed that he had let a slip of weakness, a titbit of his past. Was it a difficult, broken past, like hers, painful to think upon?

She crossed her arms, defensively, out of habit.

In reality, he was getting a kick out of perturbing her, relishing the fact that it was no longer an insult; it was _him._

"With the thoughts you'll be thinkin', you could be another Lincoln, if you only had a brain…"

She sang out of tune, thinking of _The Wizard of Oz_ as soon as he mentioned the name 'Scarecrow'. She took a cautious sip of her wine, hesitantly, gazing away, dragging her eyes away from his. The sense of unease had crept back on her all over again; how he managed to do this, she thought, I wouldn't know.

She needed a Jonathan Crane For Dummies book. He was this master of manipulation.

He looked like he was going to spit in her face at the _Wizard of Oz_ reference.

Perhaps it was time to try a new tactic.

"Look, I just don't want to do this anymore. I just want to be your friend."

He had been staring at something she was unsure of, someone beyond the crowd, on the other side of the room and appeared to have not heard her at the last minute. He was distracted, oddly enough, for a mere moment. She took this as an ideal opportunity, seeing he was still stood fairly close to her.

A single mole on the slant of his cheekbone. Five o' clock shadow, now highlighted under the dim light. His plump lips were chapped; and his skin was dry, almost too dry, as if something rough and coarse had rubbed against it. There was a small pink lumpy rash dotted at the base of his neck. His dark hair was greasy; it always looked greasy, slicked back and tousled. She stared right at him, before he realised he had been looking away for too long.

He smiled softly at her, stuffing his bony hands in his trouser pockets, but it wasn't any different from the rest of the expressions he pulled.

"Are you giving me pity, Grace?"

"No, I'm just fed-up of fighting with you."

"Are you scared of fighting?"

Always with the questions! I am bed, bath and so beyond done with you right now, she thought.

She rolled her eyes in front of him, taking another large gulp of her wine, the cheap taste singeing the back of her throat. He was waiting for a reply, expectantly gazing at her.

She shrugged her shoulders, infuriating him, although he didn't let it show, his prized composure was something most people would desire to own; although to her, it certainly wasn't prized.

He had hit her last week.

He knew something that would panic her, and smiled to himself in his mind.

He lifted out an arm, and with the backs of his bony fingers, stroked the side of her face, ever so gently, which was uncharacteristic of him by all means. Her murky eyes had widened, but amazingly she managed to calm herself, not letting her mouth drop open, or recoil.

As much as he wanted to press hard on her skin, to make her flinch, he didn't.

She frowned at him in bewilderment.

His fingers were like ice, leaving a cold imprint on her skin. When he drew his hand away after what seemed an eternity, she took a quick moment to study his hands.

A mole here and there. The undersides of his fingers were roughened, calloused. He had one small plaster on his right index finger. The skin of his right hand was mostly discoloured, burn marks here and there. The skin seemed to be flaking away on his palm. Hideous skin, repeatedly burnt by something.

She drew her eyes away before he could realise what she was doing. She suppressed a shiver; she imagined those cold, calloused hands on her body, touching her, worming their way round her, in her hair, round her neck….

And yet she still managed to feel aroused. The wine, the wine, the wine, she chanted in her head like it was a mantra.

She barely heard him mutter a 'farewell' and move away.

She was sharp to watch his retreating movements.

He stopped on the other side of the room, beside a rather cold looking man, around his late forties. She moved around the circumference of the room, beside the buffet tables, in order to get a closer look at Crane and this strange man. He was wearing a large trenchcoat.

He had a rough look about him; someone you wouldn't want to mess with. He had sharp features and thinning hair. They were both barely talking to each other, lips moving, but their eyes averted elsewhere. Crane shrugged his black woollen coat over his suit, head tilted upwards towards the crowd.

He seemed to be scanning the horde of people for someone; maybe it was her.

She turned her back, and stuffed a load of cheese and pineapple into her mouth.

When she twisted back around, both of them were gone. She grabbed her coat, and glanced about for Lisa. The girl was still in the arms of the blonde guy.

She raced out of the room, nodding and smiling at people, in order to say goodbye. She followed them, stopping at the entrance of the building, and saw they were heading for a lit-up pub across the busy street; The Horse and Jockey.

It was raining again.

She pulled up her hood.

All at once she felt tremendous fear and excitement, and dashed out in the rain, shortly becoming soaked. She remembered she had a brightly patterned scarf in her bag and drew it around her head; she was sure Crane had never seen it before. The pub stank of alcohol, stale food and smoke.

It was seedy; there were hardly any people, and she made sure to wait and enter after other individuals. It was a tiny pub, with a raging wooden fireplace in the corner. The sports channel was on the television, showing a rugby game.

Taking a small booth seat by the window straight away, she hid behind the menu, and shortly pretended to be on her mobile phone. After five minutes, she looked up, and spotted Crane straight away; his bony, icy-eyed appearance wasn't difficult to make out.

He was still wrapped in his black coat, hair dripping down his pale face, staring impassively at the men opposite of him. Pearl like raindrops dotted his glasses, and he didn't bother to remove them.

She saw they all had pints of Guinness.

Deciding it wasn't worth the risk, she continued to sit there not ordering a drink.

They were there for approximately half an hour, and in that time she heard nothing of what they had said; mostly because of the bloody rugby game on the television. She heard the scraping of chairs, and moved around the booth quickly, pulling her scarf further over her head, heart beginning to thump in her chest rapidly.

They all walked past her without a word, and Crane did not even glance in her direction.

They stood outside in the rain for a few moments, and shortly left. She decided perhaps it was best to go home, her excitement and curiosity stifled by exhaustion.

Her recent behaviour surprised her; why was she spying on him?

Because he hit her; because he had been hostile to her ever since she stumbled through the window of that fusty house; because he was hanging around with men twice his age, unsmiling, furtively sat in the corner of a rough-looking pub. She exited the pub after ten minutes. I'd make a good spy, she thought amusedly.

She texted Lisa briefly to let her know she was on her way home.

She found a telephone box and phoned for a taxi, waiting impatiently in the rain, shivering, her hair plastered, once more, to her head. Her fingers were stiff with the cold.

Her jaw tightened, and her arms squeezed themselves across her body to stop herself from trembling. It was absolutely freezing.

Something caught her eye, in all of a sudden, and she saw them clustered at the end of the street.

They exchanged words briefly, and continued to walk down the road, Crane leading them.

She glanced about briefly.

She followed the same path as they did, down the wet street.

The forceful wind blew the icy rain into her face, stinging her skin.

She kept her distance, and drew her scarf tightly around her head. Before long, they reached a country path; clearly the town Feston wasn't very large, and the Yorkshire moors surrounded the place, darkly threatening and omnipotent. She had to bend down behind several bushes and large oak trees before blithely following them on.

The country path that had led out of town was oddly quiet, and marshland instead of fields surrounded her on either side of the rotting fences. The ground was soggy beneath her feet, once she climbed over the fence, and saw them walking away, up on the higher ground away from the marshland.

She saw Crane's long legs taking him further up the moor.

The stars were twinkling in the night sky, but as they all receded further into the darkness, it become far from pleasant. The darkness shrouded Grace like a blanket. With her kitten heels on, it didn't take long before the balls of her feet began to hurt excruciatingly as the land dipped and rose.

Her task shortly became a difficult one, she realised, and most likely stupid; but this strong sense of stubborn stupidity kept her going. The ground beneath her feet became treacherous, and her heels slipped on the mossy rock, as she climbed further up the hill.

The hill was silent.

She began to see the town of Feston below her, its lights twinkling. The dampness of the cold oozed into her shoes with callous certainty, and her tights were ripped from several bramble bushes she walked through.

A crow rose up at her feet, screaming in protest, flapping his great black wings and flying off. She had been so busy keeping her eye on her now-ruined shoes and not slipping over that she had lost Crane and his seedy accomplices. Discouraged and exhausted, she turned back round and began the long, tedious way back. After a while, she allowed her feet to become soaked and the bottom of her tights to be shredded, breathing in relief as her feet lay flat on the ground.

She carried her heels in her hand.

There was no danger from the marshes if she kept to the high ground, and she began to hear music and traffic, joining the main road again. She slipped her heels back on, her feet still aching from the useless walk she had just embarked on. She waved down a taxi when reaching the town centre.

The taxi pulled up, and she pushed herself down onto the old leather of the car, barely muttering her road.

The backs of her legs ached and her head began to thump with the alcohol. The radio was softly playing, and the driver hummed to it, tapping his fingers in time to the music on the wheel. The windscreen wipers went back and forth, rhythmically on the windscreen.

By the time she arrived at her house again, the rain had not ceased, and she ran as fast as she could to the front of the door, shoving her keys into the old lock. When she entered the usual dark hallway, something she could immediately tell, was not right. She closed the front door as quietly as she could, locking it from behind.

Her shoes were squelching. Her coat dripped water droplets on the floor; one drip, two drip three drips.

She heard male voices. She didn't recognise them.

Her heart began to thud in her chest, and she stood stock still in the middle of the hallway, not daring to move. She tried desperately to make out what they were saying, but it was too low even for her ears. It was coming from the living room beside her; the door was shut tight, the light drifting from underneath the door. She saw figures moving through the light.

She couldn't hear Crane's voice.

She steadily put her bag on the floor, and gently pressed her ear to the wood of the rotting door.

Before she could even attempt to hear what was being said, an iron-like grip fell on her shoulder and squeezed hard. She couldn't help but shriek in fright; it was only so natural. Spinning round as fast as she could, her hand flew out and collided with skin upon bone.

She must have hit hard, because her hand was throbbing shortly after, and the man keeled away, holding his hand to his face, cursing her.

She didn't bother to stop to observe what he looked like; only that he wasn't Crane, and was fairly young and well-built. She dashed as fast as she could towards the kitchen, bursting in, realising she had made a stupid, irrational mistake, her adrenaline pumping fast though her body.

She shut the door tightly, taking a rather old wooden chair from the kitchen table and shoving it under the handle of the door. She heard a cacophony of voices. Then Grace realised another stupid mistake; she had left her mobile phone, in her handbag, back in the hallway.

There wasn't much time to think on that, as she frowned to gaze at the various pieces of strange equipment in the kitchen.

Beakers full of diluted liquids. Test tubes filled with a greenish substance. Syringes, filled with something she didn't know of. Labelled bottles of what looked like some kind of chemical; it looked deathly. A ghastly feeling of horror wormed its way through her body in shock, as she stared dumbfounded at the array of equipment.

Hysterical sirens of alarm went off in her head. Someone pounded on the door.

She started backwards, falling into the counter, breathing hard.

She called for his abhorrent name, thinking of the only thing she could do. It felt like a dream, it all moved with a loose fluidity. When the banging of the door did not cease, and Crane did not answer, she rifled through the cutlery drawer and dug out a sharp knife.

She could've climbed over the balcony and fallen into next door's garden, but the drop was too far and she would probably break an ankle in the process. She had to defend herself. The door burst open, breaking the frail wooden chair and she jumped, holding the knife up to her face.

The tallish man didn't hesitate. He picked up one of the syringes, and her eyes widened in horror.

"I'll call the police," she warned.

He didn't listen to her.

He lunged towards her, and swiped the knife out of her hand.

The smack against her hand resonated throughout the room, and the clatter of the knife against the tiled floor filled her with a new kind of dread. He plunged the syringe into her neck, and she slumped against the counter, not entirely unused to this pain in her neck.

Her hands immediately grabbed for his, but he merely brushed them away as if they were an annoyance.

"What have you injected me with," she choked out, her voice suddenly feeling unusable.

He pressed the plunger, depositing whatever poison it was into her bloodstream.

She saw half a used bottle of insulin on the countertop, and realised. She sunk to the ground, feeling strangely lethargic and relaxed.

The man watched her, emotionlessly, as she eyes fluttered, and her vision swam in front of her. Her limbs felt useless, immovable. The ground beneath her was strangely comfortable. He watched her for several moments, until she slumped to the ground, completely inebriated. She felt her heart begin to slow down.

A terrible realisation, through her lethargy, hit her; she was going to be dead in a few minutes. It would be a very peaceful one.

_Am I really going to die in this worn out, dilapidated house that smells of rotting wood and repressed memories?_

Despite her incapacitated body, her mind was still able to work. With great difficulty, she lifted herself up, slipping several times on the tiles, which looked like something had been spilt on it. It was the most excruciating task of her life, and by the time she lifted herself up and steadily opened a cupboard revealing bits and pieces of food, she was huffing and puffing like she had just run a marathon.

She rootled around in her cupboard, knocking over glasses and shattering them, before reaching the familiar material of tin foil and paper. She pulled out a Cadbury's bar of chocolate.

With her limbs so weak she did not have the strength to snap pieces off and instead took a large bite of the chocolate to counteract her overdose, chewing it desperately hard in her mouth. It tasted abhorrent at this moment in time.

She sat there for a few good minutes, chewing the chocolate, weakened. She finished the large bar after five minutes, weakened. Her visions no longer swarmed in front of her, but she was dehydrated and her muscles felt slack.

The shock of nearly dying hadn't quite reached her yet.

She didn't do anything for several moments, and no longer heard the abundance of male voices.

She realised she needed to phone the police or the hospital soon, but her limbs felt like lead. All of a sudden, which felt like a very long time to her, she heard the soft, slow steps of shoes upon linoleum.

She was too weak, even for her heart to thump harder.

Jonathan Crane, cautiously and with slow movements of a feline, entered the kitchen, his head bent low, eyes scanning the room smoothly with an unconcerned analysis. Hands behind his back, almost as if he was inspecting the room, his bespectacled face finally fell on her, and he did not move for several moments.

She started to breathe heavy, completely motionless, not to mention helpless, at his feet.

He was still wearing his smooth suit underneath a rather dirtied lab coat. His hair was soaking wet and he had raindrops over his lenses of his glasses and on his face that fell down in rivets. She saw he had latex gloves on. She gave an involuntary shudder.

"I'm going to call the police, if you try anything again," she spoke, her voice barely anything than a whisper.

He laughed coldly at her, not shifting.

"Don't bother my dear. The nasty men have left for now."

He turned to the countertop, and whipped out a holdall. He began placed all his equipment quietly and swiftly, into the bag, some of the glass clanking against each other.

She let out a sign, and pushed herself up a bit, trying as best as she could to gather her strength again.

"One of them just tried to kill me with insulin, Crane!" she said, intending for it to come out harshly, but her voice just rasped.

He finished packing his abhorrent equipment away, and then snapped his head towards her, that cold analytical look on his face again. She suddenly sneezed, breaking the cold tension of the moment. She had to smirk a little, but by the time she looked back up at him again, drawing her legs up, he was still staring at her with no expression. His eyes drifted to the empty chocolate wrapper discarded on the floor. He inhaled a rather large breath, turning away from her.

After what seemed a few minutes, he finally turned his head back round, nostrils flared and jaw grinding.

"Where did you get that?" he barked at her.

She realised he had wanted her killed.

Throwing herself onto her feet with a strength she did not realise, she attempted to sidestep him and pitch herself out of the room.

But he was expecting it, and was very fast.

He grabbed her upper arms, digging his fingers in, pulling her roughly away from the door.

"Get off! Get off!" she shrieked at the top of her lungs, her throat and mouth dry.

A slow sort of horror fell over her, despite her engulfing panic. He pulled her into him, holding her firmly against his thin lithe body. She flailed her arms about uselessly, hoping to throw him off, but he pushed her into the counter's edge, winding her completely.

Her ribs rubbed against the edge of the countertop, and his belt was cutting slightly into the middle of her back. These two opposing pains were becoming excruciatingly agonising; the more she struggled, the more he pressed her into the countertop, and if he did so any more; she might break a rib. Either way she was going to wake up in the morning with one heck of a bruise.

She was huffing once more.

He stood behind her with his feet apart, one arm tightly wrapped around her torso, and the other snaked up into her wet hair. He stunk of chemicals and body odour.

She tried to suppress a gag, and struggled more.

"Get off me!" she cried out again, trying to shove him off, but it was near impossible with her weakened body, and his own strength which was surprising; it wasn't necessarily an inherited physical strength or one he had acquired, it was a maniacal, determined strength and it was frightening.

It felt she was in the grip of a madman. Her Minnie Mouse mug sat in the sink, as she was shoved further forward, her ribs cracking a little against the sharp plastic worktop. She shrieked in pain; a high deafening noise that rang the eardrums a little. It was excruciating, and tears of pain leaked out of her eyes.

It was useless to tell him to get off her.

She thought for a moment he snickered at her.

He was pressing her head lower into the sink; the metal surface was coming up close. He weaved his bony fingers into her hair, and curled them around a thick thread. She tried her best not to move, her heart still at its normal pace, but she could feel her hands slick with sweat. He was breathing very hard, his warm breath on her bare neck, where her hair had fallen forward.

She flinched as he bent forward, feeling his mouth ever so close to the skin of her neck.

"Shhh…" he murmured almost soothingly, so quietly she nearly didn't hear him.

But it was deathly silent in the kitchen; not even the usual arguments from the students next door sounded and the hum of the refrigerator was distinctly quieter.

"You are deluded; I would never want to kill you Grace."

She felt his crotch press against her, as he pushed her head further into the sink. He let go of her head, accidentally pulling out a few stray hairs as he removed the mugs and cutlery from the sink. She realised what he was going to do, as he began to run the water, one finger checking the water temperature.

She saw little strands of her hair stuck to his latex glove.

He weaved his hand back into her hair, and she started breathing very fast now, whimpering in fear.

He suddenly lowered his face into her hair, smelling it.

"I didn't try to kill you Grace. It doesn't do to be curious here, so keep your mouth shut. I know you are not a fool."

He gripped her very tightly in all of a sudden, dragging her back up, and hissing into her ear.

She felt like he would rip the skin off her head, and tried not to cry out in agony.

"I'll tell you this, Grace Gilmartin, I will break that mind of yours, if it leads off track, and then I'll break your body too. One or the other first."

"Let me go, Jonathan," she spoke in a pained whisper, trying to stay calm.

"Let meh goor," he tried imitate her accent, and it came out atrociously.

He spoke it with a fierce, thrilled vehemence. She realised he was getting a kick out of frightening her like this. He merely ran the water to scare her. He pressed his mouth on the rim of her ear, his keyed up breaths coming in short rasps. His breath had a metallic smell.

Grace felt herself loathing him with a burning passion unexpectedly, and lashed one arm free in order to spin around and hit him in the face with all the strength she could gather.

It was a useless endeavour.

He seized her wrist and doubled it behind her back, and pushed her once more against the countertop, this time she was facing him. If he forced her arm any higher behind her back it would be impossible not to break her wrist. She breathed rapidly and in short sharp gasps, deciding perhaps to let him have his sly way for the moment.

"Let go of me, arsehole," she spat furiously.

He wrinkled his nose in abhorrence. She saw his eyes, close-up for the first time.

They were strange eyes, almost transparent like glass and pale in colour. He turned this cold stare upon her, like the distant, piercing stare of a blind man.

Letting go of her arm, he took seize of her head, and smashed it into the nearest wall.

The sickening smash of bone upon a hard surface resonated throughout the room, and barely a muted cry sounded from her lips.

Her body crumpled to the floor, her limbs splayed out everywhere.

He took her in for the moment. Her heels were muddy and ruined. Her tights on her right leg had a large hole in them and both were shredded at the feet. Her worn coat was soaking wet. Her skirt had risen up to the middle of her thighs. He realised she had followed him earlier on. He turned her onto her back.

He opened up her coat and slid it off her. Her chiffon blouse had soaked through, and he could see her black bra, even under her skimpy camisole. He took heed of her plain features for a moment. An abundance of moles on her neck. Those beautiful pin-prick scars along her collarbones.

A slightly piggy nose and a small mouth, parted open. He sometimes imagined, when standing in the shower, pressing her face cloth that smelt of soap and body odour, into his face, that he had caused them, stabbed her with a syringe, injecting her with his toxin.

There was blood leaking from her nose.

He caught the tail of it with his index finger and licked it away.

He felt her pulse on her neck.

Bump, pause, bump, pause, bump.

He gathered her into his arms and took her to the living room. He dropped her carelessly onto the sofa, and walked away without a second glance. He hung her sodden coat on the end of the banister. He knew she would wake up, in confusion, haunted by the room.

He knew she didn't like that room.

He muttered away to himself, small indiscernible mutterings, as he climbed the stairs. He slid his gloves and lab coat off, chucking them onto his bedroom floor uncaringly. He removed his glasses and placed them carefully on his wooden bedside table.

He splashed water onto his face in the bathroom and took a good long stare at himself in the mirror. He was sweating. He had some of her blood splattered on his face.

He licked his chapped plump lips. He ran a shower, and washed the thoughts of her away, hoping she would suffer a little from amnesia in the morning; after all, she had been drunk at one point.

Trauma would take care of the rest.


	10. The Dread

When Grace woke, the room she was in was very bright and smelt musty. The air felt compressed within the room.

_Please don't let it be a guy's bed, please, please…._Her vision was very blurry when she struggled to open her eyes, and panicked a little when she couldn't at first. Her eyelashes on her right eye were stuck together with something, something gummy and thick. With shaking fingers, she peeled her eyelashes away, having to pull a few out. She hissed in pain, emitting a few curses. By the time she opened her eyes; she looked at her fingers and saw the brown stain of blood on her fingers.

_Jesus Christ. _Pulling her senses quickly together, she saw she was sat on top of the plastic covered sofa in the musty living room of her student house. Dust collected on top of everything in the Victorian-like room; on the fireplace, on the plastic covered chairs, on the wooden coffee table, even on the dirty tattered rug in the middle of the wooden floor. It held a silent code of dread that was unspoken and lingering in the walls. Waiting until its next victim would enter its abyss. She saw flecks of particles that danced in the light that streamed in through a chink in the curtains from outside.

She suppressed a shudder, trepidation catching her at sight of the rather eerie room, knowing she had spent a night in it. She glanced over her body, checking it cautiously. Her tights at the feet were ripped to shreds. One heel was missing; the one currently on her foot was ruined with mud, and soaked through the leather inside. She move to sit up, but gasped, bringing a hand swiftly to the right hand side of her head. She was met with a searing headache. It felt like it was splitting her skull in two. Her vision fuzzed a bit, and she instantly put her head between her knees, the throbbing of her head becoming more severe. What on God's green earth happened last night was the first thing that went through her mind. How much did I have to drink, was the second. A lot, judging from her ruined shoes, tights, soaked clothes, and bloody head, not to mention the splitting headache.

Struggling to remember as she sat up, her hangover was confirmed when she felt the horrible familiar clenching of her throat muscles and her jaw stiffening. She felt the bile push itself up through her gullet. She hurtled herself up the stairs, indifferent to how much noise she was making. She held a hand to her mouth, choking. She flipped the lid of the toilet open and hurled into the bowl in time. She couldn't breathe at several points, struggling to catch her breath, and spewing until she felt like she had coughed all her insides out. Her eyes watered.

Her stomach was empty.

She slumped on the cold tiles of the bathroom, breathing heavily, exhausted. Her stomach was not settled. She leaned forward again and vomited, very hard. The bathroom was very cold, and felt like it had been recently used. There was moisture in the air, and the window was propped wide open. She didn't take notice of the distinct male-scent in the air; a mix of body odour, shampoo and deodorant. She didn't notice the approaching steps behind her, as she continued to be violently sick. She wished her mother were here; whenever she was sick as a child her mother was always there, shushing her, rubbing her back, soothing her going 'Alright, darling, _alright…' _

The sudden chilled thin fingers pulling strands of her hair back away from her face wasn't what she had in mind, but it helped, if it was just for a moment. She felt a dark presence behind her, and one hand on knot of her back. She prayed it might have been her mother, or perhaps or her dear late grandmother, but it was only Jonathan Crane. He wasn't rubbing her back; it was as if he was keeping her in place, to avoid her slumping on the floor and making a mess. He kept holding her hair back, his cold, calloused fingers brushing against the skin on her lower neck. Well this is embarrassing, she thought, and vomited once more. Her lips were chapped. There was a blob of spit on her lower lip. She stopped for a minute, breathing very hard, her throat burning and her stomach muscles aching. Her stomach still wasn't satisfied and she kept vomiting into the toilet bowl, throwing up nothing. She had thrown up nothing since she had woken – but she had drunk a hell of a lot last night…why wasn't she spewing it up?

"Come on. You need to eat, otherwise you will cause damage if you keep vomiting nothing," she heard his low voice mutter in her ear. He was too close for comfort; she could feel his breath on the rim of her ear. She looked up, towards the window, hearing the sudden rain, seeing droplets of rainwater slide down the outside.

Tears began to fall out her eyes, in company with the rain. The last thing she could remember of the night was following Crane into a dodgy-looking pub. That was it. Her body felt like it had been thrown about a bit, and she dreaded to think she had slept with anyone. Her head was thumping, extremely hard. Keeping down her vomit for now, she turned around and slumped against the toilet, not even glancing at Crane, who was on his haunches. She started to cry in front of him, not bothering to bring up a hand to wipe away her tears or her runny nose.  
Her face was grey. He tried to glance away, nostrils flaring, but not in anger. Usually he liked seeing people cry – they were frightened when they did so. But hers was not out of fear, it was out of despair. She looked unresponsive by his presence. He then sensed she could not remember anything of what happened last night. He saw the damage on her head. He almost felt simultaneously surprised and pleased with himself. If only she could remember – she'd be trembling in fear now. He put a hand softly on her lower thigh, hoping she would look at him.

She did so, very briefly, before unable to take his intense gaze. She started to sob a little, little gasps emitting from her mouth, her chest heaving up and down. He sighed inside a little, but felt extremely uncomfortable in front of her. She was sobbing genuine tears of despair and self-loathing. That could have been a delight to him, but there was no fear there. Why was there no fear there? He stood up, towering over her, and purposely took his face cloth, and ran some hot and cold water together. He bent back down, his muscles screaming in protest, not used to the strenuous stretching. He ignored her tears and dabbed a little at the handy work he'd done on the side of her head. All her hair was dried into the wound. There was also a flake of paint from the kitchen wall. She flinched exceedingly hard, jumping a few centimetres away. She pushed his hand away after a moment.

"You want help or not?" he snapped. Another couple of tears exited her eyes.

"You might have concussion, Grace," he spoke more softly this time, and a sudden expression of utter loathing crossed her face, the tears useless now on her ashen face.

"You might have a giant arse hole." He gritted his teeth, and stood back up, resisting the urge to have his way with her for once and for all. He washed his flannel underneath the tap, seeing her blood emit from the material into the water. The blood that he had caused to leak out of her. He remembered hearing her screech in pain, her eyes looking at him with abhorrence. But it was only revulsion and physical pain she felt! Why was there no _fear?_ He tried to imagine the cause of her injuries was the result of the fear he had instilled. He gripped the material tightly in his thin hands in the water, sloshing it about. There was a yellow stain on the cloth now. Her blood, probably staining it permanently now. He suddenly felt inexplicably aroused, not understanding himself. What was this, high school all over again? His loathing for her was intensified – oh how he hated her for stirring things inside him which he had not felt for years. He had tried to deny it, tried to hold it down. The wench, the filthy wench, he'd show her the true meaning of fear. If she was really terrified she would have not cried in front of him. She did not care what he thought of her. She did not make him feel like himself. No one had got to him like this since school, he hadn't let them. He held down the urge again, the urge to go back to his room, grab his apparatus and give her what she definitely deserved….

He was ripped from his thoughts when he heard the familiar sound of her coughing. She was hunched over the bowl again. He grabbed one of the hair-bands she kept inside the bathroom cabinet and tightly pulled her straggly hair back. He made sure it was tight enough to hurt her, and stood back up, leaving the room. He slammed the door behind her.

* * *

When she felt well enough to drag herself from the floor, she stripped herself of her clothes, and turned the shower on; making sure it was burning hot. She pulled her hair down, frowning at how rough he had been. He had been careful at first; well, she had been rude to him, he had only been trying to help her. She felt a small pinch of guilt; perhaps he was just misunderstood, perhaps he was extremely socially awkward, perhaps he had a terrible violent past. She saw he had used his face cloth to wipe her blood, which she found deeply odd, and somewhat unnerving. Well, he might have not given it a thought, but it was rather eccentric, nearly a kind gesture – dirtying his cloth instead of hers. She chucked her tights into the bin. She threw her clothes into the washing basket. Her head was still thumping, like someone was banging a gong in her mind frequently. She spent about half an hour in the shower, trying to wash the impurities of last night off her body.

She grabbed her razor and skimmed around the line of her pubic hair and under her armpits. She gave her hair a wash a couple of times. Even when she had stopped washing, she couldn't bring herself to come out of the shower. She stood there, letting the hot water cascade down her pale body. She wriggled her toes, chipped blue nail varnish on them, beneath her. She traced the grimy gaps in between the tiles. She looked out the patterned window, that was open an inch. For once it was not raining outside, but it would not last long. She was tired of hoping each day would hurry and blend into the next. Hoping that each day would be better than the last. She began singing a tune she had stuck in her head for days on end, one she couldn't remember the name of. When she ran out of the words to sing, she began to whistle again, watching the light outside, unmoving, feeling the water slide over her soothingly.

When she exited the bathroom, steam drifting out with her, she immediately decided on a cup of tea. She slipped her shabby smelly dressing gown over her towel and wandered downstairs, oblivious to what Crane was doing. She wished they had a pleasant living room with a television so she could kip on the sofa with a pizza and lots of chocolate for after. That was usually her hangover cure. Unfortunately she would have to make do with tea and her breezy bedroom. She walked down the stairs, humming to a tune, until she saw a shadow cast on the tiles of the kitchen floor, and saw it was him again. She jumped in fright, thankful he hadn't seen her yet. He was stood beside the window of the kitchen, one hand casually, rather uncharacteristically, stuffed in his grey trouser pocket, the other perched on the window sill. His long white fingers were bent like a spider's legs. He seemed to be intensely watching something, deep in thought. She stood there, frowning at what he was staring at. A magpie was perched on the railings of the balcony. The railings were wet with last night's rain, and one of its claws slipped a little. It glanced around, hopping along the metal railing. When the bird cawed, its beak opened wide and its throat heaved up and down energetically.

It swivelled its head around a little, catching other birds flying past it. He squawked a couple of times, the wind ruffling it's white and black feathers. She smiled softly, for a moment she was jealous of the beautiful bird and its wings. Grace saw Crane was grinding his jaw, barely able to restrain himself from scaring the bird off. She watched his composure crumble and he tapped viciously on the window and the bird instantly took off, its wings taking it away. She raised her eyebrows; he was almost childlike in this gesture. She shrugged to herself, highly indifferent to what he was doing today. She clattered around the kitchen, filling a bowl full of cereal and boiling the water. She was pondering on the thought of popping to the supermarket to buy lots of food. Strangely enough, she didn't feel the woes of a hangover. She did not feel like someone had shat in her mouth and there wasn't a nauseous feeling lingering at the back of her throat. She didn't feel greatly fatigued; it was just the same thumping at the side of her head. No tremors in her hands. It had been painful washing the blood out of her hair, but as she stood there, washing up her Minnie Mouse mug, something familiar and eerie came to her. Was it last night? It must have been, for she hadn't remembered it before. It was something terrible, and it felt like it had happened within this very room. The cracked yellow paint of the kitchen looked like something out of a lurid tale or film, sneering at her. Shaking her head, she couldn't remember what it was.

"How is your nausea?" came his low raspy voice from directly behind her. She jumped a little, turning around with a scowl on her face.

"Jesus! Do you always have to do that?" He raised his eyebrows innocently. He looked positively delighted. Why is he hanging around me like a lost child today, she thought in bafflement. He wasn't making food or coffee. What was he doing in the kitchen? His fingers, nails still bitten horribly short, picked at a piece of flaking paint on the wall, distractedly. The condition of his skin on his hands was appalling; it looked as if it was a severe case of eczema. Little flecks of white skin, surrounding more red severely dry areas, so scaly and red it appeared infected. He was wearing a holed, tatty jumper again, that looked like they had been put through the wash ten dozen times and dragged through a bramble bush. He seemed rather scruffy today; the usual greasy hair in place, but his glasses skew-whiff and his white shirt poked out from under his jumper. His ashen face looked just as sickly as hers did.

"Do what?"

"The standing creepily behind me thing. I would say it suits you, but I don't want to give you any ideas." He snickered at her again, not removing his eyes from her, and she had to laugh at herself. His eyes didn't waver from her own, occasionally glancing just below her throat. She perfectly knew what he was staring at; her junkie scars. He seemed to do that, quite often, thinking she wouldn't see it. But she did, every time. For a brief moment, a very brief moment, she forgot about his hostility, and his rudeness and violence, and felt like confiding in him, human to human. She asked a simple question instead.

"Jonathan, what happened last night?"

"You became very intoxicated…." She saw him pause for breath, sucking air in through is nostrils. She tapped her foot, aware the shower water was rolling off her skin tantalisingly, highlighted by the bright light drifting in from the grey day outside. "And you were embarrassing." She nodded, frowning at the floor, not really caring if she was embarrassing or not. She had far worse nights. She glanced back up, seeing he was gazing outside attentively. A set of magpies were squawking at each other, perched atop a tree, ruffling the leaves.

"Magpies are intelligent birds. Did you know they can recognise their own reflection in a mirror?" She didn't bother to answer him as she poured milk into her granola and plenty into her tea. She knew that already, well, heard it from someone. She saw him frown at her after she placed the milk back in the fridge.

"Why are you using my cereal?" She shrugged, and fed herself a spoon of it and flounced off. She wasn't in the mood for him today, whatsoever, and went to go upstairs, but inexplicably he followed her. She sighed inwardly; she had a double lesson in an hour or so. She had to say this behaviour was unnerving; he was searching for something in her face, in her eyes. You will find nothing, she thought coldly.

"Have you class today? Well, not class, those art sessions or whatever you have," he tried to speak casually and it failed, deflated like a balloon. She frowned, sensing his snobbery immediately; she knew he did not approve of her degree, he probably thought he was superior to everyone else in the University. She gritted her teeth in irritation. Was he trying to drive her up the wall? He looked at her innocently, small eyes wide and flashing authority.

"You think you have the entire world at your feet, don't you? You think you're so bloody smart," she snapped at him. For the first time, an itching came to her right hand - she wanted to smack that smirk right off his face. His plump lips were raised in a half smile, his eyebrows raised over his frames condescendingly and cheeks sucked in like he was sucking on something. She quite frankly loathed him.

"I don't think I am, Grace, I know I am." She scoffed at him, shaking her shoulders in laughter, some of her newly made tea sloshing over the rim of her mug.

"Yeah, you've conceit enough to make up for all the other qualities you lack." She was going to continue up the stairs; she didn't have the strength to fight him today. She couldn't help but shake with anger at his haughtiness. Whatever undergraduate and postgraduate certificates he gained in the States, now a PhD, he seemed to act like he had been scraping the skin off his bones for his education; whatever his studying amounted to, it would be the best of the best. His voice sounded out, before her toes could touch the next step. She halted, somewhat irritably.

"The thing is Grace; you're wasting your time. You try to put everyone down because you know you're not good enough. You know really, that this degree isn't amounting to anything." She felt like he had punched her in the stomach. Her face puckered into a frown, wanting to hit him.

"_Excuse me_? Mr fancy-pants? Mr I'm too good for anyone and anything? Fuck you," she spat back at him, spraying a bit of spit. His haunting stare continued, looking her up and down in that cool offensive way of his, without flinching.

And with that, she continued to climb the stairs, unbothered by what he thought, what he might have said or whether that drove him to fury. If he laid another hand on her again, she was moving out; her hangover was that bad, that particular morning. She even had an idea to phone her parents and speak her mind. Fortunately, or unfortunately, she didn't and sorted herself out for University. Sensing she looked like hell, she put on a tiny amount of makeup but dressed in a baggy grey t-shirt and leggings. By the time she was ready, not bothering to look at herself in the mirror, the rain had began to fall lightly, outside, thankfully. She pulled on her tattered coat, seeing it was hung up delicately on the banister. The usual grey day hung above her drably as she walked her usual ten minute walk to campus, up and down several hills. Other students filed in with her and past her, some looking at her curiously.

She had no motivation for her course at the moment. She was slowly building up a portfolio of her work, the theme was saturation. Her project was taking the mundane and ugly in life and making them beautiful. But she hadn't touched her camera for a while. She had just been sketching out of her mind. All the other students around her were already creating Van Gogh's on canvases. She was sitting in the corner, tired, miserable and lost, constantly sketching a biscuit packet. It was making her feel mundane. She felt like the useless student in Heather Lugh's class. She felt like the untalented, stupid inferior student. She knew she was wallowing in self-pity and sucked it up when she saw Lisa flinging paint at Aaron playfully. The other students in her class were busy getting on with their own projects. One guy had spread out his workspace that nearly took up most the area they were allocated, with newspaper on the floor, littered with paint boxes, his shoes and his hoodie, and a stack of magazines. He was busy working on a large paper-mache that was supposed to resemble an unclothed woman. Grace stared at it disdainfully for a moment, before she heard Lisa's loud splutter of laughter, which made the paper-mache student jump a little, getting a lump of glue on his thumb. She hadn't realised she was drenched from the light rain outside, which the wind had blown into her face and into her hair all the way down. She saw Lisa and Aaron looking at her amusedly.

"What?" she snapped, sitting down, getting her paint brushes out of her holdall grumpily. She really needed to get down to the nearest art shop and buy some canvases, and some more linseed oil. She absentmindedly shook her empty bottle, letting Lisa stare at her for a while longer.

"It's raining outside?" Lisa asked, bringing Grace to lift her head. She nodded, and then realised, with a drop in her stomach.

"Is it bad?" she sighed. Lisa was biting her lower lip, and Aaron had already turned himself around to avoid Grace's sour mood.

"Well," Lisa waved her ringed fingers around, sliver catching off the overhead grey light streaming in from the ceiling windows. "It's bad. It's Jackson Pollock." Grace spent a minute rootling around in her bag until she found her compact mirror and hairbrush that her Grandmother gave to her when she was in the hospital. She gazed at her face; mascara, all over her face, yet again. Her face creased up in annoyance, but pondering on Lisa's comment, the sides of her mouth lifted up in amusement. Lisa joined in her laughter. She hadn't begun her work either, and her workspace was filled with lots of magazine cut outs and several used tubes of acrylic paint, along with a tube of Pritt-Stick.  
She had a large canvas with a woman sketched out on it. Her subject matter was hair. Grace remembered her telling her about this painting, which was going to look like a standard advert but showing the woman unshaved. Something about the restraints of society in any case. The amusement of her ruined makeup to Grace didn't last long though. She popped to the toilets, and wiped all her mascara off. She didn't know why she bothered. Who was she trying to impress, again? Lisa spent the next half hour talking about Jackson Pollock to Heather Lugh. When she stopped nattering away, she turned to draw extensively on her canvas, before a group of boys passed by the open door of the studio, curiously poking their heads in. Grace glanced up slowly to look at them, as their eyes flew straight towards Lisa's shameless portrayal of her naked, unshaved woman. The tall blonde boy, presumably the leader, called to Lisa, but she didn't even blink. Heather Lugh was cornering another student, dreamily talking away.

"Hey! You know, do you know somewhere where I can date one of those chicks? I mean I find girls like those really hot, you know? Just wanna _toast _em," he spoke loudly, making his friends snigger. Grace could feel Lisa's irritation sizzle in the warm air. "I mean I am all for embracing natural beauty and not conforming. You one of those? Could you help me out-"

"Get fucked, you taint, this isn't a dating session," spoke Lisa, without even turning her head, her long blonde hair hanging in her face. His friends seem to laugh in embarrassment, and the boy's cheeks tinted a rather pretty pink, before turning away. Several of the class snorted, before turning back to their work. Grace produced a small smile. After a while, she stopped bothering with her project and began to sketch photographs of her Grandmother from memory, as she knew her. Lisa began to go up to every other student in the class and talk for Wales and back, before sensing Grace's misery. The girl hadn't seen such a sorrowful sight. Grace's head was bent low, lank mousey brown hair falling into her face, the corners of her mouth drooping. Lisa didn't expect to see any tears, dropping onto the sketchpad directly opposite her face. Lisa was sat on a swivel chair, and rolled herself across the room, wheels riding over paper-mache guy's newspapers. He turned around in haughty irritation. Lisa slammed her hands down onto the table that Grace sat upon.

"So we hate life and we hate men and we need fun. Want to go bowling and get drunk?"

So they went bowling. The bowling alley was on the other side of town, in a rather rough run-down area. It was down a few side streets that held various corner shops and markets run by Indian families, crumbling pubs with grey-haired men chain-smoking, a mixture of young men and women dressed in tracksuits and trainers. An overweight woman pushed a large pushchair along the cracked bubblegum-ridden pavement, one hand holding a cigarette, the other on the handle of the pushchair. Her one-year old child held a chewed rubber toy, shaking it erratically, and whimpering when he realised his mother wasn't taking any notice of him.  
Grace could smell kebab and fried chicken in the air. As Lisa chatted away about the blonde guy she recently got with, they walked down this decrepit almost distressed street, smoke streaming from chimneys of terraced houses further down, and the smell of beer and smoke wafting through her senses. This only further lowered her mood. By the time they began bowling, it wasn't long before the pints of cider were poured, and the lowness that she had felt soon began to sift away. Several of Lisa's housemates joined them, and the crowd of them dominated the noise within the bowling alley, causing the other people, mainly the elderly or unemployed, to roll their eyes in aggravation. By the time she was on her forth pint of cider, the sky outside had darkened, and younger people were filing in.

The smell of sizzling hamburgers drifted through the stuffy air temptingly. The flashing lights of the game area were in one corner, while the fast food area was in the other, stuffed with more people than the actual bowling alley. Grace lost her worry, as her world soon filtered into one of mislaid inhibitions and reckless abandon. She began drunkenly flirting with Lisa's male housemates, who drunkenly accepted it. She and Lisa spluttered with laughter as they peed in the ladies toilets, sharing a cubicle together, splattering water everywhere, and checking their wet shoes for ends of toilet-roll paper. She began to swing the bowling balls a little too enthusiastically, still knocking over two of three pins pathetically. The group became rowdier. Lisa was behind her, joined by the blonde guy, whose name she learned was Cormack.

She had six pints of cider before Lisa was shouting from behind her to chuck it very hard, in order to score better. She thought of Crane's callous words, like sharp arrows flung from tightly strung bows, and his analytical sharp-gazed look from under his lenses. She chucked the bowling ball a little too vigorously. She drew all her might into throwing it, and let go of it too late. It smashed straight into the ceiling, instantly popping a light off, and plaster flew straight to the floor. A heinous cacophony of laughter erupted from behind her.

They were kicked out and fined within a space of fifteen minutes, receiving an assortment of dirty, angered looks. Without a single thought about Crane, she invited the lot back to her house, the remembrance of her first undergraduate days like sweet sugar on the tip of her tongue.  
Her increased wildness, libido, the doleful need to take drugs again; the alcohol swamped her like a large terrifying wave of water. They burst into the house, like hyenas on a feast-searching rampage. The old wooden door slammed and shuddered against the tiled wall behind, as the mass of drunken twenty-somethings stampeded into the darkened corridor of that hateful, musty-smelling house. They burst into the kitchen. A couple of boys pulled out a couple of frozen hamburgers from the freezer. They sniggered at the poor selection of food in there. Lisa dived into Crane's cupboard, and found nothing of value there.

"I would make a mess of it anyway," laughed Grace. They tipped all his coffee, down the drain. All the sugar. All the cereal into the rubbish. Whatever was left in his cupboard, eggs, self-raising flour, gravy granules, a banana, Lisa made into a disgusting horrible mush, and then started throwing it at the boys. The kitchen soon became a place of screaming hysterical laughter, and food thrown in every direction. Cormack took everything out of the fridge; thankfully Grace didn't have much in there. He kindly asked Grace which was her milk, and then threw Crane's milk in every possible nook and cranny. Whatever was edible within the place was thrown at another person, onto the floor, onto the cupboards, onto the walls, anywhere within sight. The boys ate their now burnt hamburgers, before chasing the girls around the house, feet stamping like a herd of elephants. With alcohol comes reckless abandon, and Grace did not once consider the consequences. She almost felt like banging on his door and asking for a night of wild sex. _Hahaha!_ She cackled in her mind. She charged around the house, losing Lisa briefly. One of the boys, named Kieran, started pounding on Crane's door.

"Housekeeping!" Grace stumbled into the bathroom, desperate for a piss, before emitting a terrified, drunken scream. Lisa came out gradually from the shower curtain, clutching her side in laughter.

"For God's sake Leese, you know I'm jumpy!" she cried out, hitting Lisa playfully on the arm. Kieran was still pounding. It seemed to be the last memory of the night, although the night had clearly not ended.

* * *

By the time she woke up next morning, her head burst with pain, but not the pain she had in her head earlier that day. Her duvet covers were on the floor. A wine bottle was strewn across her messy desk. A warm body was next to hers, on her right side, breathing heavily, the hairy chest moving up and down. She gazed at his tuft of hair. He slept on his stomach, head drawn towards her, mouth wide open, a thick line of dribble hanging out of his mouth. She frowned. She gazed down the length of his body, at his hairy arse, and his still-socked feet. She briefly glanced at his clothes on the floor.  
Orange t-shirt, baggy ripped jeans. There was residue of egg and flour on the t-shirt. Her room was a bomb site. All her clothes were on the floor, and she sat there, shivering in the cold morning light of the day, completely unclothed. She saw the remainders of last night stained on her light pink bedcover. She closed her eyes briefly, momentarily hating herself. She buried her head in her arms for several minutes, dragging her knees up to her chest. Gradually, she stood up and wrapped her warm fluffy dressing gown around her. She had dreamt something terrible last night, for once it was not her addiction.

It was her failed relationship and what a price it paid. She had made the mistake of sleeping with a boy soon after the relationship dissipated, on a terribly messy night out. The guy had been unable to leave her alone soon after, persistent almost to the level of creepy – although no male could compare to Crane, she decided. The one time she gave in and met up with the boy, her ex-boyfriend Charlie and all his mates were there, in the coffee shop, zeroing in on her and her date. What a coincidence, yet all they could do were snigger and occasionally cackle at her. It was like being back in school again. She point-blank ignored it, until the word of her being a junkie-whore spread like wildfire across campus. Then she began to realise her life and its miserable prospects and what a mess she had made of it. What years she had wasted, drinking and injecting poison into her body. She could have had it worse. Although some of her veins were collapsed, she was malnourished and overtired; she knew some who had it worse.

She bent down and picked up bits of beef and bread off the floor, wrinkling her nose. She picked up her duvet and put it over him, covering his rather nauseating hairy, manly body, a clear reminder of what new lows she had come to. She picked up his jeans and a discarded condom fell from it, plopping to the floor. She shuddered, and picked it up with a tissue and put it into a separate bin bag. The boy suddenly snored loudly, and her insides churned. His name was Ben, and he was one of Lisa's housemates.

She gazed back at his tuft of curly black hair, and realised what a fool she had been last night. If she hadn't felt self-loathing enough yesterday, she certainly felt it today. It was too late to deny it now that she had thrown the evidence into the rubbish, and that every time she moved the physical evidence soon reared its ugly head. She would scrub herself clean in the shower, glancing at the inside of her thigh.

She bit her lip, hearing a sudden, rather uncanny bashing downstairs. The memory befell her abruptly, like a ton of bricks falling to the ground. She and her friends had made an absolute mess of the kitchen downstairs; ravished it and ruined it like a herd of animals. She sat down at her dressing table, glancing at herself. Her face was pale as the day outside, and her hair appeared as if had been backcombed several times. Her dressing gown had parted as she had sat down, revealing a plump swollen breast. There was a circular green bruise at the tip of her bosom. She rolled her eyes.  
As she lowered her eyes, she noticed there was a certain darkness. She quickly pulled open her gown. Staring back at her in the dusty mirror was her normal pale body, marred by abhorrent, explicitly imposing bruising. It was a straight line of bruises, the oddest thing she had ever seen, all lined under her ribs. Like she had been pushed against something. How on earth…She stood up a little, pressing the tips of her fingers against the discolouration of the skin. She tried her best not to wince at the livid skin. She turned slowly around to gaze at the boy on her bed. Surely not….But how on earth did she get it? It must have been the night before, the one she didn't remember. But it wasn't a drunken, stupid bruise; it was one from brute force.

The clatters downstairs were becoming louder. Her mobile phone suddenly buzzed from somewhere, and she spent the next ten minutes trying to find it. Lisa had said she'd gone home, with the others. _Mate…are you alive? The kitchen is a fuckin mess. If he gets funny come to mine, yeah? _Grace tried to ignore the niggling sensation in her stomach, slowly pulling on whatever she could find. A white t-shirt, light blue jeans. She stuffed her bare feet, sore for some reason, into her converses. She didn't bother with makeup and brushed her straw-like hair back into a loose bun. Finally she summoned the utmost of strengths and nudged the boy slightly with one finger. He stirred a little, breathing out a snore, very loudly. She winced, closing her eyes tightly. She re-opened them, and nudged the boy again, very hard. He started a little, and slowly realised his surroundings. He turned onto his back, showing her a not-so lovely view of his pale naked body. She looked away pointedly.

"Oh fuck…." He moaned, and sat up quickly. He had stubble around his jaw. A speck of egg yolk was in his hair. She had placed his clothes, neatly folded on the edge of the bed. Grace was unsure what to do. He asked for a glass of water, rubbing his eyes tiredly, as he slipped his boxers and jeans on. She grabbed a dirty glass from her bedside table, and went to the bathroom. She paused on the landing, hearing for the noises downstairs. She could hear him clattering still. He was furious. She thanked her lucky stars she had a lot of work to do today, and that she wasn't feeling the sickly fatigued pangs of a hangover. She filled the glass, and when she returned the boy had dressed himself completely. She handed it to him roughly, some of the water sloshing over the rim. He drank it in one gulp, and stood up. He shuffled his feet awkwardly.

"You know the exit," Grace said to him. She hadn't felt this awkward in quite a few years.

"Thanks for-"

"Yeah." She interrupted. He nodded, sensing this girl was not going to say anything further, and abruptly left. As soon as she heard the front door close cautiously, she quickly began to get ready for University, glancing at the time. One in the afternoon. Terrified he would suddenly knock on her door, she threw everything together in the space of five minutes and crept down the stairs, hoping he would've deciphered that the boy had been her leaving. The stairs creaked, as she slowly walked down them, her holdall held tightly in her hands. She could hear him scrubbing something; it was fierce, fast scrubbing. She got to the end of the stairs and walked very quickly towards the front door. The scrubbing stopped when she touched the handle of the front door. She escaped outside. It was sunny, for once.

* * *

It took a couple hours to clean the detestable mess. Two hours of his time, that could be doing something important.  
Typically she had not showed up, although he could hear the door close this morning. He could hear her creeping down the stairs, soon after, presumably, her partner for the night. As he scrubbed the disgusting floor, ridding it of egg yolk and coffee grains, he felt he couldn't loathe Grace Gilmartin any more. He felt even now this was the limit, although he doubted within a small space of time she could make herself likeable. Not that he found anyone in particular 'likeable'. His frayed brown trousers became dirty from the tidying and cleaning. There was a bead of sweat on his forehead. He had already taken off his glasses, which were covered in muck. His usual greasy hair fell lank into his eyes. Each stroke he gave to the floor, he tried to control his rage, but he couldn't. It hadn't mattered that they might've woken him up last night.

He had already been awake. Pacing to and fro on the threadbare carpet, clad in his nightclothes, a once white t-shirt and thin cotton trousers with holes in them. Pieces of paper were strewn all over the room, highlighted by the lamp shining brightly from his desk. It appeared like an interrogation room; the study lamp and the swivel chair, the strewn papers everywhere, the darkness. The dark corner of the room sat a makeshift metal table with jagged edges; it had been crudely put together. On it sat tubs and beakers and other equipment of a various types. A small machine sat beside a rusty Bunsen burner, its red light glaring. The walls of the room were damp, and there was mould growing under the window, where the curtains had been drawn, and never touched by him.

His insomnia was getting worse, and whatever sleep he did receive he only dreamed of strange, eccentric happenings, ones he could not decipher, and ones which gave him ideas. The amount of toxin he had exposed to himself now, made him somewhat indifferent to whatever nightmares he had. He was becoming immune to the previous batch; it had depressed him like none other. He had taken care to dispose of it carefully, just two nights ago, when that girl interfered. He had large dark circles underneath his eyes he couldn't get rid of. There was an ashen look to his face whenever he glanced briefly into the mirror, only when he had to. He had been glancing at his new, nearly-ready batch, so tempted to retrieve the real him, open the door, and gas them all, scare them all to death. Especially her. He had heard her scream last night. She had been intoxicated with alcohol, but the sound that had emitted from her voice was genuine.

And as he stood in the shower that morning, when all of them were still sound asleep, he thought of her scream, the guttural high-pitched wail that one he was so acquainted with. Mindlessly washing himself, squeezing the soap tightly in his hand, the sound of her scream reverberated throughout his mind, over and over again, until he couldn't bear it and leant against the grimy tiled wall, the near-cold water streaming over his bony shoulders and down his back. He envisioned witnessing her reaction to his new batch of toxin. How he would give her a dose so concentrated, her body would spasm. She would foam at the mouth. Her eyes would roll into the back of her head.

The steam of the shower drifted in through his nose as he pushed his forehead harder into the tiles. He imagined wrapping his spindly fingers around her windpipe, pressing his thumbs down on her prominent scars. He could feel her skin break and her bones crunch underneath his fingers. He wouldn't even allow her to beg. He wanted to wipe her away quickly as she had come into his life.  
She was his to manipulate and his alone. Perhaps he had to try a different method. Manipulate her in a different way, perhaps he could coax her towards fright using not such a hostile manner. But he could not help it. It was difficult to be kind, to be civil. As he closed his eyes, he began to see red under his eyelids. The hoarse scream that came from her throat last night kept running through his mind, as he still pressed his forehead against the tiles, so hard the skin began to spilt a little. He began to see her lifeless body on the ground, mind mutated, her face frozen in a frame of fright. He could not bear to be around someone who was of such ill repute, always never showing any kind of fear of him, just casual nonchalance.

It was only when he was up close and personal that her murky eyes wavered in that oh-so delicious way when terror struck the senses. And as much as he loathed any sort of physical contact, unless truly necessary, he had enjoyed the feel of her trembling underneath him. Before he even realised what had occurred, a certain kind of arousal struck him, one that he hadn't felt in years. He tried to remember the last time anything of that kind had happened. It had been years and years ago, before any of his great ideas had come to him. When the taunts of the other teenagers had still affected him. He angrily switched the shower off, dried and clothed his body as quickly as he could. He would enjoy it when she came home, if she would. He knew she was apprehensive of his reaction.

It was the most delectable thought ever.

* * *

When Grace got home, she tried to ignore the swirling in her stomach, and her tight throat.  
She also tried to fully acknowledge her hangover, now that she was home after a rather unproductive session in the art studio. Unsurprisingly Lisa wasn't there, but neither were Heather Lugh and a few other students. It had been a student night after all. She visited the local corner shop, and grabbed everything that was suitable and appealed to her. Dorritos, dip, a bottle of coke, several cartons of fruit juice, Heinz tomato soup, a bar of chocolate, Hob-nobs, shortbread with chocolate chunks in them, a large box of Earl Grey tea, a jar of marmite, a loaf of crusty white bread and lastly a large mozzarella pizza with sundried tomatoes and pesto. She was going to go back home and stuff her face.

She grabbed digestive biscuits, marshmallows and another bar of chocolate on her way out. Smores it was. Perhaps she could win him over with these, she joked in her head. The house as usual was dark and quiet as a church mouse. Her plastic bags made an impressionable racket as she stumbled inside, cursing and trying to find the light switch. By the time she shoved the pizza into the little rusty oven, she still hadn't heard anything from upstairs. The kitchen seemed to be spotless. Very spotless. It didn't take long to make the smores. The smell of pesto and grilled cheese drifted through the air. She mashed one last smore and laid it out on a plate. The oven ticked once the pizza was done, and she took it out, cursing again when she caught the edge of her thumb on the baking tray. The place was almost too spotless. She opened his cupboard. There was nothing in there except his crockery. She frowned, perturbed why he hadn't bothered to replenish his food. There was a creak in the floorboard unexpectedly, and since she was on her guard, she slammed the cupboard shut and span around swiftly. Her lips were puckered together and her eyebrows were raised.

She looked like a guilty child, hands raised up clutched together at her chest. Crane stood there, towering as usual, his tatty clothes hanging off him limply, hands stuffed deep into his trouser pockets. It was a rather casual gesture, and she tried to read whether he was irate or merely pissed off. When she caught the sign in those blind-like eyes, she realised the latter was probably false. They both stood there for a moment, the hum of the fridge sounding in the background, a filler for the pregnant pause. It was so quiet she could hear him breathe out through his nose. Her heart was thumping very hard, but she couldn't help but pick off a sundried tomato from the pizza. He didn't move his eyes from hers. He took his hands out of his pockets. He appeared thinner than usual, and his normal pale eyes were darkened from the bags under his eyes.

"You have anything to say, about last night, _Grace?_" His nose wrinkled and his nostrils flared when he spoke, as if he was trying his best not to spit her name out. She managed to take a deep breath, glancing at her smores. They sat there looking sorry for themselves.

"All I can say, is I'm very sorry," she answered quite flatly.

"Is that all you can _do?_" he sneered at her. He stood there sort of awkwardly, hands hanging down by his sides, as if he wasn't sure what to do with his rather lanky round-shouldered posture. She shrugged at him, knowing it would probably infuriate him. She definitely wasn't going to grovel, like he expected her to do. He was just that type. Instead she reached over her pizza towards the plate of smores, and picked one up. The biscuit wasn't doing well to hold the marshmallow and chocolate together. She shakily held it out, hoping he didn't notice her trembling. Her heart hammered so hard, she was sure he could hear it in the silence of the room.

"Here. I made one especially for you. For last night, and for telling you to fuck off that morning. Let's be friends." She thought her words sounded juvenile, but she was trying to be sincere. He was gazing at her curiously, completely caught off guard. Once more his eyes drifted down to her collarbones. He seemed to do it every time he ever looked at her – either that or he was looking at her neck, waiting for an opportune moment to strangle the life out of it. She suppressed a shiver.

"Correction, you actually said 'fuck you,' if I remember right. And friendship is something I have not experienced fully. Why would I want to begin it now?" She thought, despite his cold tone, he was speaking sarcastically. There was a small smirk in the corner of his mouth. If it had been anyone else, she would've been hurt, but this man was not worth getting your knickers twisted about. Clearly. She waved the smore at him, in irritation.

"Here. This is what Americans have isn't it?"

"You presume I eat this?" She sure hoped she had touched a nerve, if he had any.

"Did you not when you were younger?" she snapped. He seemed to be moving close to her, which was rather remarkable, because she had not noticed until the pallid colour of his face became more prominent under the kitchen light. Once more, the pock-marked skin on his face was brought into the unsightly light.

"No. My grandmother never let me have things like that." She tried to stem the morbid memory of him talking about his grandmother, just before he had hit her. He was playing her like a fiddle, she surmised. She sighed in exasperation.

"I'm not in the mood for sob stories. Take one."

"I don't like things like this." She raised her eyebrows incredulously. She wondered if he even ate.

"You don't like biscuit, chocolate and marshmallow?" she asked. He fully smirked at her this time. She wasn't sure what frightened her the most; his anger or this playful behaviour which had him smirking.

"It's made with cracker, not-" He glanced sideways at the packet of biscuits on the countertop. "Not 'Digestive Biscuits.' You've made it wrong," he responded. Her eyes fluttered in frustration. He watched her reaction with interest, but he cut her next sentence in half quickly.

"Good night last night?" He was still smirking, and ran his tongue over his front teeth. For once he did not wear that unresponsive face of a corpse as an expression, she mused. She stood stock still, trying not to look at his mouth. The sly bastard, she thought. She was not the blushing type, yet she felt the heat rise to her face, hoping it was out of anger rather than embarrassment. He watched her reaction with interest.

"You think I'm as stupid as I look, don't you? That I'm some commoner with a funny accent and tatty clothes? Piss off!" She flung the smore right in his face. Bits of biscuit had broken upon impact and flung into different directions when colliding with his bony nose. He recoiled a little, not expecting it. She picked up her pizza and rushed out of the room, heading for her bedroom. She didn't expect him to walk slowly after her. She almost felt his shadow looming behind her enshroud her very being. She tried not to run.

"Grace!" he called, somewhat harshly. It unnerved her, as she went up the stairs, holding her pizza down with one finger. He called her name again, a little more loudly. She reached the top of the stairs, spinning around the landing, towards her room. She was ever so thankful there was a lock on her door.

"GRACE!" he shouted. She doubted that he simply wanted to talk to her. His last yell of her name signalled that exactly. She made sure to stay in her room for the rest of the night, watching telly on her netbook and stuffing her face. Perhaps she should have gone over to Lisa's. But her body moulded into the mattress of her bed already, and the fatigue of a hangover caused her limbs to fall dead. She loved hangovers. If only he wasn't there to ruin it.

* * *

It was over a week later, and it had not rained. Spells of sunnyness, period of over-clouding and dullness. She wasn't keen on going to campus when she let her eyes flutter open at one o' clock, but as she was behind on her work, there was no other choice. She was sick of feeling persistently exhausted, although partially it was her fault. Her body clock had adjusted over the years, since her addiction. She was accustomed to going to bed at one in the morning, every morning, sometimes later. She hadn't heard a peep from her creepy housemate, but she hadn't given it much thought as she stumbled down the stairs. She was a heavy sleeper and he often had the step of a mouse. Grace Gilmartin often wondered if he spent more time mooning angrily about her than she him; he probably did.

Pushing him roughly from her thoughts, realising he was not worth the time and, quite clearly, the effort. He had hardly been around that week. Whenever she saw him he seemed to take himself out of her sight, often quickly, suspiciously she thought. Sometimes she heard his whisper of a voice coming from his room; either he was talking to himself or someone on the phone. She couldn't imagine who he'd be talking to; he stated clearly, at least in her eyes, he didn't want friends. Too above for anyone, unable to come off that throne he had built out of insecurity.

She trudged along the brightened streets; instantly the town appeared more jovial and serene in the sunlight, tree branches swaying against the graceful backdrop of a light blue sky. Her holdall carrying her paints and other utensils smacked against the side of her leg roughly, one which seemed to throb. Not another mysterious bruise? Despite presuming she had drunk herself to disgrace on the night of the postgraduate event, she couldn't help but greatly suspect that it was not all hunky-dory as it seemed. All she could think what happened was that she stumbled home after following Crane, perhaps returned back to the evening first. Then she stumbled home, falling over several times.  
That would explain the throbbing on her upper leg. But it did not explain the disgusting bruise just under her ribs. It was still there, after a week. The discolouration was so vivid she thought perhaps she ought to check it out. However, she left it, realising to think she had internal bleeding was a ridiculous notion. Crane's answer about that night just seemed like his usual haughty reply, but she knew with every inch of her logic that he was not to be trusted. Had he hurt her again? Absurdly, she felt like she needed to bruise that lanky body of his; it was so thin it looked like it could snap easily. One smash with a hockey stick and he'd be gone….

If only she was still gifted with hockey and bothered to join the hockey team at the University, despite hating all those athletic types. She had been at Feston University for over a month now, and she still hadn't attempted to call her parents, and vice versa. After trudging onto campus with all the other lacklustre students, the day was clear still, brightening her spirits a little. By the time she reached the art studio, not anticipating anyone to be there, she was a little pink in the cheeks, and spotted Lisa working on one of the free tables on the other side of the room. She had earphones over her head; face bent low, tongue stuck out at the corner, hair falling onto the messy table.  
It was very quiet in the studio, but being a Wednesday afternoon, lectures finished early due to sports. The table was covered with a large abundance of paint-splattered sketchbooks, empty tubes of oil paint, several plastic cups full of dirtied paint water. Lisa's music was blaringly loud, contrasting against the silent tranquillity of the studio. A distant window was open and faintly could hear the call of the blackbird; it was nearing late afternoon, and she felt time was a constantly moving river that she couldn't keep afloat in. Lisa sensed something darken ahead of her, and glanced up, her frown melting into a brief smile. She took her headphones off.

"I hate everything," Grace mumbled, slinging her holdall off her shoulder and dumping it straight on the floor. Lisa smiled, stopping her music, and plopped her paintbrush into a plastic bottle, some water splashing out. Grace picked a stool and sat on it, trying to pull a smile at her friend, wishing she could move in with her. She realised earlier on, it was now out of the question, thinking of the hairy body in her bed over a week ago.

"Is it Johnny?" Grace couldn't help but laugh out loud, and Lisa shortly joined her. When their lungs were expelled of all the air used in laughing, and their stomach muscles clenched painfully, they finally stopped. Lisa fiddled with the wire on her black oversized earphones.

"I have some good news – vacancy at the archive centre where I work." Lisa had a job at the café of the archive and library centre. It was opposite the campus, across the busy main road that went towards York, and surrounded by large, bushy oak trees and backed by a huge car park at the back. Lisa had been working there since the summer; having moved lived in Feston for a year already, saving for her postgraduate. Grace watched Lisa twist the wire around her finger playfully.

"A job in the café?" began Grace excitedly. Lisa tried to not let her face fall, but it did, knowing it would not please her friend.

"No," she began slowly, trying to keep her voice level. "It's a cleaning job, couple hours in the night, finishing at ten. Its bloody good pay, Grace. For a cleaner. I know that's all you've had, but if you really hate it you can just ditch it." Lisa by this point was gazing at Grace fully, trying to keep a smile on her face, seeing Grace's ashen face turn even more to a rather unhealthy colour. She rolled her eyes greatly, forcing her chin into her palm sullenly. Lisa grabbed her shoulder and shook her.

"Come on, doing you a favour mate – besides who cares? You're doing a postgraduate. This is just money for boozing and fooding." Grace gazed at the rather grubby floor for a few minutes, before unable to hold her smile and let out a little snort through her nose, putting her arm around Lisa's shoulders.

"As long as you sneak me cake from the café," she joked. Lisa pinched her on the upper arm.

"Cheeky cow. Done and done. As long as you get me some disinfectant and I can clean the kitchen that the boys' bloody well messed up." Luckily she didn't reveal another quip about her housemate that Grace had drunkenly spent the night with. Whenever Lisa mocked him lightly, thinking he might turn into a cute pink, he instead turned into an angry beetroot red. She left it after that. Lisa was still smiling at her; Grace tilted her head and widened her eyes a little. It seemed to be too late to be doing any work now.

"Me and my other housemates, including Sir Benjamin-"

"Yeah yeah yeah," Grace cut in, waving her hand in the air, causing Lisa's face to crumple into laughter again.

"We've made hundreds of water balloons; it's for a protest, happening on the campus." Grace raised her eyebrows in surprise. She hadn't heard of any protests. Lisa sensed so, and began talking again; something about unfair election in the Student Union and racist behaviour to some candidates. A fairly local, peaceful protest. Lisa began to pack all her things away, slipping her headphones around her neck, and picking up a plastic bag full of water balloons. She said her goodbyes and left Grace to the solitude of the art studio. There was no one else around, oddly enough. Grace pulled out her utensils and began to mix her paints. Might as well get on with some work now and stay until late, she thought begrudgingly.

Grace Gilmartin was in the library several days later when the first stage of her constant anxiety began. She had been in the art studio all day on her own. Lisa had been drinking the night before and was sleeping the day off. It had been a busy day within the studio, mostly full of noisy undergraduates. She had got a lot of work done, having come onto campus around eleven in the morning. She felt motivated and pleased with herself.  
Now she had to do some research on an artist related to her project, in the library first, before writing a research journal. Around six in the evening, two hours before her shift, she had already spent a good half an hour looking through every available book that had information on her particular artist that was related to her topic. She had been accepted for the job, it had been fairly easy. She had already spent most of yesterday trying to decide what artist what she wanted to relate to and write about. Now she spent most of today recreating paintings of that artist and now stacking up a large pile of books, most of them large, hardbacked and very heavy.

Despite approaching deadlines for most students as it was the ending of November, the library was very quiet. The art books were down in the basement of the library, which had several levels. She could hear the footsteps of people upstairs. A couple of lights flickered down several rows of books.

The place was immaculate, but the lick of paint that covered the walls, the tiled floors, and the cheap metal bookshelves was decidedly old-fashioned, probably dating back to the sixties or seventies. She was at the end of one row of bookshelves, leaning beside the wall, barely any room for her to move around with all the books she had on the floor at her feet. The bookshelves were very close to each other, tightly squeezed in a small space; it was almost as if they ran out of money or space when building it. She sighed, putting each book back into one separate pile for loaning or back into the places they were in, some not in the correct place. Tiredness fell over her, and she began to regret taking this job, even though it was two hours, five days a week. She flipped through one last book, scanning the page intensely for information. Grace was ignorant of any sounds around her, having become used to the silence.  
The smell of the old musty book wafted into her nostrils and as she frowned, gazing down hard at the page, she didn't take heed of the oncoming footsteps, shiny polished shoes upon cheap thin tiles. Frustrated she flicked back and forth over the pages, cursing how there was very little in the library on the artist she wanted. It wasn't until a shadow fell over the white page of the book she was frowning at, did she look up. Immediately she stiffened; she hadn't seen much of him recently, being rather busy, but also being rather uninterested. It seemed the same vice versa, but as he loomed over her, waiting for her to respond, she guessed he was interested this time. She slammed the book shut, and flicked him a brief, unassuming glance, catching the coldness behind his frames before shoving the heavy book back between its companions.

"You very much like your pranks," began Crane, and inwardly a large tidal wave formed a great sigh within her, as she turned to her right. He had stepped back a bit, but due to the proximity between the bookshelves, it seemed he had her cornered.

"They are rather amusing, reminds me of school, almost. I had to teach an entire two-hour seminar with a wet shirt and hair." Oh, it seemed to click within her, as she remembered Lisa's protest gesture the other day. Obviously the girl had spotted Crane from a distance and lobbed a water balloon at him. Grace did her utmost best to bite hard on her lip and widen her eyes, trying with incredible difficultly not to scrunch her face up in laughter.  
She could imagine him, thin lanky frame stood out against the wetness of his shirt, floppy greasy hair awkwardly brushed back because it had little substance to it because it was wet. He ignored her mocking look and swallowed, as if preparing for an attack. She turned her attention to the books on her left, and trailed her index finger over the hard spines, some hardbound in cloth, some with printed plastic.

"Oh, what a shame. Must have been quite a saturated experience." She saw his jaw visibly tighten, but still gazed down at her offensively. He barked out a cold laugh. He was casting a shadow over her. He loomed over her, seemingly at close proximity, yet as she quickly glanced down, he was at least half a metre away from her. His pale long hands were by his sides uselessly, and a couple of calloused fingers were tapping against his trouser leg, rather impatiently. It appeared as if he was about to lift them up and use them violently, at any minute. Then he inched a step forward. She tried not to lean back, as her gut instinct told her to do. He sighed heavily through his nostrils, mouth tightly closed.

"You know, Gilmartin, I'm beginning to tire of his." She rolled her eyes to her left again, spotting a relevant looking book and pulled it out by the top of its spine. It was a relatively new book, and as she flicked the pages, the smell of brand new paper wafted into her nose beautifully. She flicked over every page, trying to infuriate him. His glacier impersonal stare bore into her; it felt trying to make eye contact with him was like trying to stare directly into sunlight.

"Oh really?" she began conversationally, and then snapped the book shut and didn't put it back on the shelf properly. She felt she was past being civil now with him. Being friendly was a tactic that had not worked at all. She wondered what a good tactic was. Her heart began to beat a little faster and there was an odd prickling at the base of her spine.

"Why don't you stop bullying and threatening me._ Scarecrow_." Trying to ignore her slightly trembling body, she breathed out heavily and turned back around. Luckily there was a gap between the ending bookshelf and the wall, and she could squeeze through. The lights above them were beginning to flicker ominously. Before she could put one foot in front of the other, she felt the familiar forceful contact of his strong hand upon her shoulder.

She didn't even have time to think and react to it; not even time to panic. He wrenched her around so hard her shoulder cracked in its socket. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly in instinctive defence as he twisted her around and slammed her into the bookcase behind her. All the wind was forced out of her, and she was unable to open her eyes for a moment. He didn't stop to contemplate her…he licked his lips, _fear, _or physical pain. The back of her head had caught on the metal casing of the bookshelf and sent a quiver of pain throughout her skull. She felt like a bit of her skull had been bashed in and her face had realigned itself.  
"What did you just call me?" She opened her eyes after a few moments, unable to believe this was happening again. This time, it was much worse. Her heart beat like that of an African drum, quick and booming, and she was sure he could feel the pulse angrily thumping through her bloodstream. He still kept his hand on one shoulder, the other by his side. After he had hit her the first time, for a time afterwards she thought she might have dreamt it, once the bruising had healed up. But it had not been a dream, not even an allusion of nightmares. His sudden, abrupt violence had the terror from that night come rushing back to her. She didn't respond to him, now gazing at his eyes directly, swallowing what felt a large rock at the back of her throat. He was shaking himself; she could feel the tremors coming from the hand that crushed her shoulder beneath his tightening grip.

"How about feeling a bit of fear for once, _Gracie? _Do you like to feel fear?" he hissed at her, but the smirk was there on his face, set like stone. His eyes lit up like a passionate fire was burning behind them. She kept her eyes wide and her mouth straight. Where were the CCTV cameras and all the other students and librarians when you needed them? It was quiet like the silence amidst a crowd about to witness an execution. He had gritted his teeth, emphasising the letter 'f' when he spoke the word fear. He had hissed like a snake, and slowly squeezed her shoulder further. She raised her eyebrows, pushing the tongue against the roof of her mouth, trying to ignore the bone-crushing pain of his hand upon her shoulder. She tried to pull a smile and spoke in a casual manner, trying not to give him his ultimate satisfaction.

"Do you want me to feel fear, Crane? Does the control it gives you make you feel superior? Unique?" His eyes glazed over with a certain kind of lunacy, and his breathing started to pace a little more with the beating pulse in his temple. His stringy hair fell into his penetrating stare. His face was far too close for comfort, she realised; she could smell his metallic breath, his body odour from the day, and the failing deodorant that had worked it's magic already.

"Don't," he barely managed to utter. He was losing it, she surmised. If she yelled for help, would some lazy student hear her? Probably not. They were all out drinking or sleeping at their desks upstairs. Or watching telly at home.

"You…are walking on very thin ice," he finished his sentence, uttering every last syllable with a determined contempt. She felt herself shudder, not helping herself, and he flickered his eyes when he felt the tremor vibrate through his finger. She had a surprisingly bony shoulder; he had to note that she was not the thinnest of women he had seen. Even so he was glad she had a bare shoulder, his fingers began to press the skin together painfully and his thumb began to dig under the joint so that whenever she moved she tensed further.

"Why are you being so malicious? Please, get off me." He didn't take heed of a word she said, pleased that she was starting to beg. He smiled at her hauntingly, rubbing his thumb particularly roughly over her shoulder joint, which made her forehead crinkle in pain. She was biting the inside of her cheek, very, very hard.

"Do you know what scares you? You failed to ask me last time. Is it me, Gilmartin? Or is it the constant fear of succumbing to your desires again? Your everlasting need for drugs? Would you like to try mine?" He pushed his thumb further down into the skin, but she tried to hold against the pain, scowling at him deeply, ignoring his predictable, scathing remarks.

"What? Let go of me, right now. Otherwise I will scream and alert the staff." He stuck his jaw out, seemingly pleased with her response, and in defence as he leaned closer towards her face, she stuck a hand out and pushed against his lean chest. She tried not to shudder touching him, the soft material of his suit was strangely comforting, reminding her of his undeniable humanity, despite his antagonistic behaviour.

"Oh I welcome it," he spat, and some of the spray from his words landed on her cheek. It was now that Grace Gilmartin began to panic; a trapped fly in a spider's web. She slammed both her hands against his chest and hauled her body weight forward into order to throw him off, hissing at him again to let her go. He began to laugh, a deep laugh that reverberated throughout his body. His grip on her shoulder, the torturous rubbing over her shoulder joint was turning her vision blue with pain.

"Let me go NOW, CRANE!" she half shouted, a pathetic attempt to scream, but she found she didn't want to give him what he wanted. She nearly toppled him back into the large shelf behind him, but his other hand flew to her open neck and grabbed it roughly. He pushed her back into the bookshelf, completely winding her. She yelped in shock and pain, loosing her footing, her converses squeaking on the tiled floor. He put a leg between hers so she didn't fall, increasing her panic and discomfiture all the more so.

"You just don't stop, do you?" he seethed, angry that she nearly had him over. "Your games never fail to entertain me."

"If this is about the water balloon then I'm really fucking sorry." It was surprising she had managed to speak out against the throbbing she now felt in her head and the torturous agony with his continued motions on her shoulder. She had to thank her lucky stars he wasn't strangling her. Strangely, he just kept his icy fingers on her neck, as if to warn her. If he had been anyone else, it would be temptingly sensual. Unfortunately, it was Jonathan Crane and it wasn't. There was the threat of having her windpipe crushed. He narrowed his eyes at her remark. His glasses were slightly askew as a result of their fight. He let his eyes trail over her, almost seductively, his fourth smallest finger rub ever so slightly against the tender skin of her neck. She continued to stare at him angrily; fuming that he was so violent, fuming at his arrogance, fuming that she hadn't moved away from him yet. He was gazing intently at her neck, head tilted as if he was analysing a test result in the lab. He seems to be enamoured with this pain and fear I feel, she thought in disgust, his icy hands on her throat and bare shoulder. In that moment; she realised how tall and lanky he was; he really was a scarecrow.

Perhaps that was why he didn't appreciate the comment, a small knowing voice spoke at the back of her head. Whatever was left of his short bitten nails began to dick into her neck and the look in his eyes were animalistic, the pupils dilated. His concentrated stare of abhorrence continued to bore into her, like a thousand knives piercing. If he pressed any harder, she was likely to become part of the bookshelf, she thought amusedly, unbelieving of her own dry wit. Soon believing she no longer wanted to be his victim, lifted her right hand from his forearm and palmed his nose. She heard it click, and watched him stumble backwards, masking his pain by covering his face in shock. Before she could act once again, he took her by the upper arms and threw her back against the metal casing. She hissed with pain, and nearly slid to the floor. He continued to hold her up, digging his fingers into her arms. There was a bit of blood at the base of his nostrils, and he breathed heavily.

"So insolent…I need you to do something for me. I will not accept no as an answer." Grace did not say anything. Black spots danced around in her vision from the ache at the base of her skull. She had hit her head far too many times in the past month.

"The archive, where you work." Grace tried not to depict surprise. She had no idea how he knew; she had only been working there for a couple of days. A raw feeling of fear crawled up from the base of her spine and worked its way back into her gut.

"What about it?" she asked indifferently.

"I need you to get me in, after your shift finishes."

"Why?" she queried straight away, snapping at him. What could he possibly want from an archive? What was this, some sort of thriller? Perhaps he needed that in his life. His eyes seemed to be glowing with an unspoken ferocity, like he had kept the raging urges underneath his clear frames, pressed suit and plain unadorned tie. He pressed down on her a little as he hissed at her again.

"Why should I explain myself to you? You let me in, and let me get what I want." He spoke as if she was a child, as if she had trouble understanding English and her frown deepened, almost to the point her face screwed up.

"Why the hell should I help you?" she barked at him, trying to shove him away. "Letting you 'get what you want' will always be a bad thing, I'm guessing. If you do anything more then I'm moving out." She had said it very venomously, although her words had been very blasé. She had never spoken to anyone quite like him before, and had never used such a harsh tone. He saw straight through her however, and fixed her with a most contemptible, vile stare. She watched him warily, waiting for a bucket load of insults to hit her like a gale. Instead his face fell, as if someone had wiped him of all emotion, like washing down a messy slate. He was deadly silent for a few moments before moving very fast, in the blink of an eye. His long fingered hand gripped her jaw, so tightly he compressed her skin together, pulled her head forward roughly and slammed it against the metal casing of the shelf behind her.  
It was agonising, more so than his violence before. Black spots again briefly danced in her eyes as the agonising pain exploded through her skull. She let a gasp of anguish escape her mouth, hands shooting up towards the location of pain, but he quickly slid his hands down her arm and forced her from doing so. Tears stung at her eyes and blobbed out, rolling slowly down her cheeks. The warm tears soaked the tips of his fingers, as he dug his fingers into the bone of her jaw. Her head began to pound as his silence continued, and she began to whimper in distress.

"Jonath-…ugh, my head…"

"_Because, _that's why," he finally answered his voice calm and oddly conversational. "Don't you dare think about moving away. You have a shift tonight?" She nodded, trying not to let out a strangled sob or bark of fury. He smiled, very slowly, but it wasn't genuine.

"That's my girl. Now don't cry." He slowly moved his hand away, and left it mercifully, hanging at his side. His eyes flicked down to study her jaw, red and sore from his advances.

"Might want to get some A&D on that." Her expression of pain changed rather quickly to one of confusion. He rolled his eyes exasperatedly.

"Emollient?" That was the last straw, she pulled away as hard as she could, reached for her bag on the floor, not bothering with the pile of books she had laid out. She carried herself off as fast as she could, face red, breath heaving. Feeling his presence behind her, in paranoia she began to leg it up the corridor and towards the large centre spiral stairs that led to all floors. Hearing him cackle suddenly with laughter made her take two steps at a time. It was an hour or so before her shift. She fiddled on her phone for a while, breathing in the night air, and began to call Lisa. She wanted to call her Mother. But she would leave it for now. Her heart was still beating fast as she got to Lisa's house.


	11. Downpour

**A/N**: Hello my lovelies. Thank you for reviewing and reading, you are wonderful. I send a virtual hug in your favour. I hope you enjoy. *excitedddd dance*

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The night was dark and windy.

There was a great gust of wind that blew the light rain through the air viciously; shaking tree branches and ripping the few leaves that were left. Car headlights on the road blared through the gusty air, highlighting the tiny droplets of rain in the chaotic air.

There were few people on the narrow, windy streets; most of them were huddled in their cars or within the buildings on either side of the road. One figure, huddled against the driving force of the wind and the rain, splashed through the puddles on the ragged pavement, arms wrapped tightly around their body.

As the figure began to run, almost wildly, the rain started to thrash down harder, and she forced her hood tightly against her head.

Grace ran through the wind and the rain towards the large square, modern building, and now ten metres away from her on her right. She was soaked to the bone, as usual, and two minutes late for her shift.

The rain was icy and stung the skin on her cheeks. The night intensified as she nearer to her destination. When she arrived inside the foyer of the archive, thankfully dripping water in the right place, on the mat beside the large glass doors, she was five minutes late.

The place was rather 1930's-inspired art deco. On her left stood a curving white staircase that led to an open second floor, filled with white bookshelves and rotting books. Signing in at the main security desk, she went to the store cupboard and grabbed her usual cleaning equipment. She slipped the white latex gloves on, snapping them at the ends.

She shuffled out of her wet coat and hung it up, among the other coats of her fellow co-workers.

She pulled back her straggly hair and tied it into a tight ponytail.

She was thankful that she had taken the residue of her makeup off at Lisa's. A few centimetres of Triplex, filled with water into the bucket. She took out a new mop and replaced the old one.

She reached for her tabard inside her coat pocket and pulled it out, slipping the rather unsightly thing on, the damp rough material scratching against her arms. It was an hour ago she had rushed to Lisa's, heart beating like a wild thing trapped in a cage.

By the time she reached the door of Lisa's student terraced town house, she couldn't bring herself to ring the doorbell.

She stood there, the rain dripping into her eyes from the edge of her hood, staring at the doorknob of the blue front door, the paint splitting around the wooden frame.

She could not do it.

She had to sort this one out for herself.

She knew Lisa would go crazy and possibly storm over and sort it out, physically after the verbal berating. She had to get to the bottom of what Crane really wanted. Acting in a hostile manner towards him was not helping, obviously, but each time he patronised, condescended and insulted her she couldn't help it. It fanned the flames within her.

She couldn't help but want to know what went on in his arrogant mind. What made those cogs turn.

Perhaps he had an awful past like hers.

She tapped a message into her mobile and sent it to Lisa. Not knowing why she was making excuses for him, that was when she quickly turned back around and headed home. She was lucky not to encounter him in the house, but she made sure to shut herself in her room. She spent the next hour sitting on her bed, gazing out the window, and the rising hill behind the house, orange street lights dotted everywhere, the odd bright white light running along between the orange horizontally.

Her shift went ever so swiftly, when she was praying for it to go slowly, like it usually did.

The hoovering of the upstairs library was quick, and her back did not sweat like it usually did. The dusting and wiping down of all surfaces seemed to take her ten minutes. It seems as if something was wringing time of all energy, much like twisting a cloth, so it was eventually free of water.

Her co-workers went past her, smiling slightly chatting loudly amongst themselves as they exited the building through the glass front doors of the foyer, their voices distinctly northern. She wasn't sure what was going to happen now, as she gazed at herself in the mirror in the ladies toilets, her hands shaking visibly.

She ripped her tabard off and folded it neatly and placed it in the large pocket of her still-damp coat.

She re-did her hair, not sure why, and turned back, to walk into the foyer.

Her legs felt there was no substance to them and she felt as if she was going to collapse, paralysed with fear, at any moment.

She took a sip of water from her little black handbag, and saw a long figure outside.

Taking a deep breath, not allowing herself to be intimidated by him, she exited the building, shrouded in darkness immediately. Her stomach clenched. It was lightly spitting with rain. There were no cars in the car park apart from his black beamer. Trying not to shudder at the sight of him, tall, in an oversized coat, she waited there, blinking hard against the hardening rain. He slammed the car door shut, and walked over the cracked gravel, his eyes never once moving from her. Despite her trembling hands, that she stuffed into her coat pockets ever so casually, she met his glance as he walked with haste.

He stopped a foot away from her and smiled eerily down at her.

She met his cold-eyed stare, eyeballing him as much as she could. His power of perception was clear as ever, and she detected that he felt and smelt her fear as easy as detecting the sweet sensation of sizzling sugar in the air. She continued to regard him coldly, despite his almost mocking glance.

"You are going to lead me inside to where I want. Move, now."

She didn't and continued to stare at him, trying to instil some reality into the situation.

"What the hell are you up to, Jonathan? I have a right to know, after all that physical abuse you put me through several hours ago. You're scaring me."

She regretted her words instantly, as his smirk dripped off his face and was replaced by a dark, calculating one.

"I'd be dissatisfied if I wasn't, my dear. Move, now."

His repetition of words was more forceful than the first, and for some reason her eyes drifted over his body, and she thought and assumed she saw a bulge that signified a knife holder at his waist. She didn't want to imagine it was a gun, if it was, God knows how he got hold of it.

It was perhaps best if she didn't resist now, as much as she wanted to.

Turning back around, after giving him a hard stare, she led him in through the entrance of the foyer, ever so conscious of the fact that he was right behind her, a weapon on him.

She realised perhaps the reason why she was sarky with him most of the time, was that despite his hoarse-sounding voice, the twang in his accent failed to fully send shivers down her back.

He didn't seem to want to walk beside her, and tailed behind her, as she led them down a staircase at the end of the room behind the main help desk.

They entered the steep alcove of the archive after she swiped them in with her staff card. Mahogany panelling the walls of the main archive room and huge bookcases reaching the ceiling littered the large, overhanging amber lights in-between them.

The floor was wooden, and intricately patterned.

Desks with study lamps on them sat in a large open space in the middle of the grand room. No one was there, much to her dismay. Only a few lights were on, and she suspected the security guards would switch them off at midnight. It cast an eerie shadow over the cheekbones on Crane's face, as Grace turned to him expectantly, raising her eyebrows.

He waved his hand in a circular motion, and she turned around, but hesitated to move, heart beating very fast.

"Grace…" he warned, voice silky, coming from above her. Goosebumps erupted on her forearms.

"I don't know where I'm supposed to take you," she hissed loudly.

"I would think, pharmacology," he replied haughtily, very calmly behind her, prodding a bony finger in her back, making her start forward.

She wasn't sure why he expected her to take him there.

She had no better knowledge of the sections of the archive; besides it was stated clearly on large plastic signs tacked to the ancient rotting walls. She realised he was doing his best to patronise her and moved forward, after spotting the section for medicine, all the way down the open space of desks, towards the back of the massive room. He didn't tell her to stop, as she hurriedly walked down the red carpet that was in the middle of the room, as she tugged the sleeve of her coat at the elbow.

They ended up in the Botany section, much to her bemusement.

He stepped around her, breezing past her, and began to ignore her for the next ten minutes.

She was tempted to leave him to his musings, before she began to notice his frenzied behaviour.

He was tearing out files, dropping them to the floor when he deemed them useless. She heard him breathing hard through his nostrils, and watched with slight fascination at his franticness, his white spider-like hands erratically flipping through papers.

Papers soon began to litter the floor, reminding her of the art studio on campus.

"Well, I'll leave you to it-"

"Don't you dare," he snapped at her.

Her forehead puckered and a deep frown enveloped in her skin, feeling like he was talking to her like a child, commanding her as you would with a dog.

It took him a good ten to fifteen minutes to eventually find what he wanted. She sat on one of the tables, trying to keep calm as best as she could, watching his every movement. She presumed he wasn't going to clean up after himself.

He stood for a further five minutes, frowning deeply at the paper in his hands. She was unable to detect his expression, due to his large frames shadowing his eyes. She took out her mobile distractedly, seeing Lisa had not replied yet. That was strange. She plonked it down on the table, frowning. Don't leave me, Lisa, she thought desperately.

Grace lifted her eyes back up to Crane.

He was memorising the words on the page, eyes flicking back and forth and then he snapped it shut.

He put it back, surprisingly in its place and snapped his attention to her, walking over to her, slowly like a cat about to ambush.

"Sufficient, I suppose, but you haven't shown me enough. Is there another place I can access, somewhere more specific?"

Grace scowled at him and jumped off the table.

"If there was, I wouldn't be allowed. I don't have access to high security areas, I'm afraid. So you're stuffed."

He stepped towards her menacingly, looking for a brief second as if he was about to finish off what he was doing hours ago. She stepped back angrily and flung her hands up.

"Don't! I swear to God if you touch me again I will piss in a cup and throw it at you!"

He laughed at her, a horrible high laugh that didn't suit him whatsoever.

"Well, Grace. I've got what I wanted. Guess you will have to lead me to where I want tomorrow night also."

He glanced behind him at the mess he had made.

"I'm sure they won't be too pleased in the morning knowing you haven't completed your job properly."

She continued to scowl at him darkly, probably marking a constant worry line in her forehead.

"There are CCTV cameras in here, Crane."

There was no sarcasm evident in her voice this time, and her scowl stuck to her face, as if glued on. His smirk didn't lift, unsurprisingly, which she was secretly thankful for, because the previous dark look he had shot at her caused alarm bells to sound off in her mind.

He didn't move from his place, placing a couple of files back on the shelves, and compulsively, unable to leave the mess there began to put them back in meticulous order, but he began to talk in a low voice.

"I'm doing this only for your benefit. I don't ever expect you to complete your job properly. It's the only kind of job you've had, day in, day out…I bet you don't value your life as much as you used to. Although I do wonder, with all your abuse of heroin, whether you have ever valued life at all?"

He paused, turning to look at her blank face.

She was chewing on the side of her cheek, very slowly.

He still had that one important file in his hand, and moved a little closer to her, step by step, his feet silent on the carpet below him.

"The only job," he mused, rolling his eyes around under his frames that reflected the amber light.

"The lowest job you can obtain. Pathetic really, isn't it? You are pathetic, Gilmartin. It's a shame your parents haven't contacted you. Perhaps they don't care, knowing their daughter is an utter failure."

She gritted her teeth together, but unimaginably was able to hold her feisty tongue for once. She honestly wondered if he was something else, other than conceited or malicious.

"Here we go with the vindictiveness again. Haven't you said enough? Or do you like to keep hurling them until I'm crumpled on the floor?" she spoke to him calmly.

He didn't respond, staring at her completely expressionless, his gaunt face standing out in the half light.

They were silent for several minutes, how long Grace did not know. It was utterly silent in the great hall, not even the traffic outside from the main road could be heard.

She saw how white his knuckles were, however, as he held the file.

There was a nerve twitching in his temple, where his parted hair fell. The words that he had thrown at her like a rock from a catapult began to sink in slowly. She didn't want to bother anymore, no matter how hard she struggled physically or mentally, it would not work, she would not win against him. She did not want to win against him. She did not want any more hardship like this in her life.

She had dealt with enough, and he was beginning to drain her of the last energy she had for life left. Turning away, she walked away very quickly, her still damp trainers squelching on the floor. She couldn't care less if he wouldn't be able to get out.

Taking two steps at a time, she could only thank herself for not breaking down in front of him.

She hadn't felt this much anxiety in a while, one he had triggered. She used to feel it a few years back, when she was still using. Her heart began to race, as she hurried out of the building. Her hands were clammy and her vision was fuzzing over. She didn't stop to take a lungful of oxygen, apprehensive he was following swiftly behind her, gaunt face emerging from the shadows like something out of a nightmare.

What she saw bulging at his waistline told her enough. She didn't feel hysterical; she had proof.

It was raining outside, unsurprisingly, but she didn't pay any attention to it, and hurled herself across the car park as fast as her legs would carry.

The muscles in the back of her legs began to strain at the abrasive sudden exercise, and her chest ached, struggling to keep up, reminding her that she needed to throw in her smoking habit. She wasn't even sure where she was going, blind and grief-stricken she threw herself into the night, regardless of the time and weather. Within a few minutes she was soaked to the skin, and had stopped running.

She had run all the way through the fairly small campus of the University, and was now in the park, with most of it's streetlamps blown out.

Her eyes soon became accustomed to the dark, and like a lost soul she wondered stupidly through the park, picking up her pace, once she gazed over at the dark shapes of the trees in the distance. A light mist settled over the rolling hills in the background, and it became thicker as she followed the gravelly path towards the exit of the park towards the street where she lived.

She was drunk on terror, fumbling for her phone, when she thought she spotted a figure behind her. Her heart pounded and pounded; so hard she could hear the blood in her ears.

She kept going, half running, straining her leg muscles further so that it caused her eyes to sting with the exhaustion and unrecognisable pain. She patted her pockets viciously ticking off a mental checklist; tabard, keys…a coin…filter tips…lint…a withered piece of paper, probably a receipt.

She checked her pockets over and over, and realised with a terrible pang that she had left her phone at work.

Grace nearly cursed out loud and kicked a nearby rubbish bin over in frustration.

She had no doubt that Crane might have found it in the archive, knowing she would have stupidly left it in a ridiculous place. And she had no doubt that he would look over her text messages, studying her, sensing her anxieties and fear, her secrets. She had moaned about him a lot over text, but she had the phone for several years now and had never deleted her old messages, for a sentimental value.

One that was unknown to her. Ones from the other users.

Ones from her ex-boyfriend.

Grace darted all the way home, ignoring people who gazed at her curiously from their cars. She ignored the cat calls from the middle-aged men that stood outside The Rhyddings pub that was on the corner of her street, smoking heavily.

The anxiety became intense as she slowed down, sensing her house was near at the end of the street. Why was she returning there? She wasn't sure. She had to go to Lisa's instead, but it was eleven at night, and most likely everyone was in their rooms, out drinking or watching loud telly. They were students; no one answered the door after five o' clock.

After five minutes or so, she realised she had taken a wrong turning, for the number of her house turned out to be 98 instead of 8, and she must be several streets away from her house. Frustrated, she walked down the nearest street, taking her in a direction that was unknown to her.

The night smelt crisp. There was a smell of bonfire smoke in the air.

She distantly heard a dog barking, and someone laughing. The traffic was distant but audible. She realised the wind that blew the sudden gust of rain had been no guide to direction, and she started to become fraught with unease. She walked uncertainly through the mist that hung low in the air.

The path seemed long and torturous, and it felt isolated, despite the terraced dark houses gaping at her from other sides of the street.

The wind veered in her face once more as she began to pick up her pace once more when she heard the soft whisper of voices behind her.

She began to cry softly, in anguish, the tears bitter tasting in her hand as she brought them to her face to wipe them away. She cursed her weakness – how one man had done this to her! How he had brought all her insecurity and unease to come crashing down upon her again, almost as if it had never left! Grace wiped her tears angrily as she came to the junction of a road, with four paths to choose from.

She looked about her, straining to see through the fog, trying not to let the feeling of helplessness befall her. She was unaware of the steps behind her, of the dark figure that had been following her for the past ten minutes, keeping a safe distance until now.

She had chosen the path to the left of her, and began to stride quickly down the damp uneven pavement that was littered with puddles. She was completely unaware of the approaching figure behind her, oblivious to the world around her.

She was deeply intent on getting home, and then from there she would know how to get to Lisa's which was a ten minute walk away.

It was only until the figure came up very close behind her and she could hear the sound of footsteps directly behind and soft breathing that made her eventually turn around in trepidation.

The figure had put a surprisingly warm hand on the middle of her back, making her jump slightly.

Grace did not emit a sound when she twisted around to see it was Jonathan.

He was just as soaked as she was.

Strands of his dark hair fell into his eyes, and he was blinking hard as the rain continued to fall, the droplets blinding him. She saw the collar of his white shirt stuck to his long pale neck, his tie loosened, just poking out the top of his damp woollen coat.

She was shivering because of the cold, staring at him, waiting for him to say something. He chose not to, and was looking at her with an expression she did not recognise. As soon as he lifted his forearm, she flinched and anxiously batted his arm away, completely taken off guard by this new behaviour. She grimaced at him in fury, but also in fear, crunching her fingers tightly in her sodden pockets.

Grace wasn't sure what to think of him. Taunting threatening words, and a bruise that marred her skin. Awkward dinner date one time, crushing her head in the library the next.

She had brief flash of the false notions and impending death depicted in the novella, _Don't Look Now._

Her blood ran cold.

"We're on the correct street," was all he spoke before she turned impatiently away. Grace stormed down the damp street, blindingly heading towards the poky haunted-looking house with chipped paint and mouldy rubbish bags out the front.

She fumbled with her keys for about a minute, her fingers swollen with the cold and stinging. Gently he stepped beside her, and unlocked the door himself, allowing her to enter first. She didn't speak a word, not even wanting to look at him or thank him. Thank him for what? She was going to pack her bag and leave. She wanted to go to Lisa's. Perhaps she wanted to go home. The house was dark, cold and menacing, knowing he was inside with her.

As soon as her icy fingers touched the banister, she heard him slam and lock the door quickly, stepping close behind her.

Her foot had not reached the second step before she heard him talking, feeling as if he was shouting from a distance. Her heart was still banging and her feelings were caving in to her anxiety. It was evident that her hands were shaking, but she hoped he surmised this was from the cold.

She turned around edgily, fixing him the coolest stare she could find, and snapped.

"WHAT? What is it you could possibly want _now?_"

He just returned her glare with a relatively emotionless one, clear eyes like glass.

He had not attempted to shuffle out of his damp coat, and neither had she.

"Grace, calm down. You've been yelling far too much."

She responded by laughing hysterically, taking another step, her hands gripping the banister so tightly her bones ached with the pressure.

"Are you having a laugh?" She plodded back down the stairs, pushing past him and walked down to the kitchen. She fumbled in her drawers, and found her packet of tobacco and began to roll one, not caring he was now stood at the doorway watching her carefully.

She didn't care, she kept telling herself. When she was satisfied she rolled a good cigarette, she unlocked the back door and flung it open, lighting her cigarette hastily. Being inside the house smoking the cigarette calmed her a little, despite the man who was watching her on her left.

His eyes never left her, only briefly doing to, when he poured himself a glass of milk. She frowned a little at him, taking a puff. The nicotine filled her system rapidly and her muscles relaxed at once, her head swimming. He watched her as he downed the large glass of milk, and wiped the residue off his upper lip, placing the glass back into the immaculate sink.

By the time she finished her cigarette, stubbing it out and lobbing it into the garden below, he was still keeping his beady eyes on her. She found herself feeling a little too relaxed and drowsy, as if she had smoked pot instead of tobacco.

She found her mouth was opening without her thinking.

"Why did you say all those terrible things?" Grace found herself wanting to say a lot more, but somehow her brain and mouth did not register. For the first time, he slipped his lenses off and placed them into his coat pocket.

His eyes appeared horribly pink, small and naked without them.

Yet his clear-eyed gaze was far more intense she realised, without the lenses, and sucked her in like a vacuum.

He didn't seem so severe when they were off. He didn't bother to clear his throat as he whispered her name.

"I…I'm sorry. I've never been good with people. I – tend…to become nervous." She watched his Adam's apple bob up then down in his thin neck. She shook her head in bewilderment.

"I don't understand."

He ignored her last statement and let his exposed eyes drunkenly drift over her briefly. He blinked hard several times, signalling he had very poor eyesight. Was he expecting her to think of that statement and pardon him?

She was too drowsy to feel discomfort at this rather seductive gesture.

"You are wet through to the skin," he commented. "I have a portable heater; we can dry your clothes fairly quickly in my room."

His menace seemed to have sifted away a little at this mysterious invite to his room, one that he seemed to be so secretive about. Perhaps she would be promoted to the attic room in less than a week? Despite his kind gesture, his elusive behaviour disarmed her anger and alarmed her somewhat. He could only be planning something, but without his glasses he didn't seem the intense, spiteful man she had known for two months.

Something in the back of her mind was proud and tempted to portray herself as not afraid of him. Something told her refusing in anger was giving in, and he would continue to the point where she really would be afraid of him. Nodding, his face flashed a satisfied brief response, before he let her lead the way. To unnerve her, she mused, as she stumbled through the corridor.

She felt lightheaded, drunk almost – the cigarette was too strong for her liking. But it was the same tobacco, the one she had bought a week ago, the same one she used over the past fortnight. Why would it be any different now? Knowingly, she grabbed her dressing gown that was hung mercifully on the end of the banister at the top of the landing. She stepped aside, waiting for him to unlock his door, but he waved a hand.

Nervously, she pulled the handle and the door clicked open.

An unpleasant smell hit her nostrils as she stepped up into his room which was on a higher level than the landing. A desk lamp shone on his cluttered desk. It was filled with papers with scrawled handwriting.

She realised there was not the usual posters tacked to the wall, or family photographs.

There was nothing, apart from his semester timetable, teaching and studying kept separate. There was dust on the chest of drawers to the right of her. His bed was made, but not very well.

The sheets appeared as if they hadn't been washed for a while, and his carpet, an auburn shade, hadn't been hoovered for God knows how long.

The floor was kept free of the usual though. Before in her ex's room she had seen a sock with a bit of vomit on it, tacked to the floor by gum, irremovable. At the corner of the room, ahead of her on the other side of the room, was another desk, she supposed, with an assortment of things upon it, but it was covered with a bedding sheet, a greying tattered thing that needed to see the rubbish years ago.

His room had a smell that tingled the nostrils, brought a sixth sense back to her that had been dormant for years.

She could smell the dampness of the room, but she could detect a chemical smell, something extremely unfamiliar. The central heating still had not been fixed, and she was impressed at his large portable heater that stood at the end of his bed.

It seemed strangely human, strangely normal.

Jonathan Crane had a portable heater.

She thought he would prefer being cold, it seemed to suit his personality.

Grace heard him suddenly behind her, as she still surveyed the room.

She saw many books stacked on the desk and on a makeshift shelf on the wall; psychological, psychoanalytical, pharmacological, medicinal…Then it became more specific…. cognitive behavioural therapy, neurobiology, anxiety disorders…

To her, all dreadfully morose and lacklustre.

She heard the door shut tightly, but she didn't hear him turn the lock furtively. He shrugged out of his soggy oversized coat and hung it on the back of the door. She wasn't quite sure what to do with herself, but her mind was whizzing like a merry-go-round. She saw his soaked thin frame bend down to switch on the heater, which worked instantly.

There was a small clothes horse beside it.

She began to shrug out of her own coat, and he hung it up with his on the back of the door. She began first, nervously, to hand him her soaked trainers and socks, which he handled gingerly.

He didn't do the same for himself; instead he pulled off his sweater hastily.

He placed it on the clothes horse, and shortly did the same with his tie, the strands of his hair sticking to his forehead.

The white of his shirt was relatively dry still, as he fumbled about with the heater a little. He was bent down, fiddling with the knobs on the machine, and she could see the curve of his knobbly spine.

Her heart began to beat again, once she noticed the dirtiness of his room, uncared for. The dirt that gathered at the bottom of the walls. Black mould underneath the undrawn curtains. The curtains appeared as if they had never been opened, there were clumps of dust resting on the loosely threaded material. She saw cobwebs in every corner of the room, linked together.

The carpet, although free of mouldy socks, litter or anything else, there were pieces of lint and dirt clumped in several areas. His room, once she began to become used to the chemical smell, had a certain old, musty smell that reminded her of the Cornish cottages she holidayed in with her parents when she was a young child.

It brought a sense of tranquillity to her, despite standing in, what she termed, the lion's den.

She glanced down at her wet chest and nearly gasped in shock.

She forgot that the bra she was wearing wasn't very padded; all her other bras were in the wash, that she had not got round to doing yet. The outline of her bra stuck out through the flimsy cheap t-shirt and she grabbed the front of it and pulled it out, trying to cover herself. She squeezed it tightly, and water dripped onto the floor.

She thanked the sweet Virgin Mary and threw her dressing gown on.

He finally straightened himself up, and the heater blew furiously.

She was thankful it was quite noisy; the silence she wouldn't have been able to cope with. His naked pale eyes looked over her, and he motioned to her t-shirt, which was soaked through. He was trying to avert his eyes from her, looking like an embarrassed schoolboy about to relinquish his virginity.

She slipped her arms out of the arms of the robe, keeping the thing still tightly shut round her. He drummed his fingers on the bedpost of his bed, soon straightening himself to his normal, intimidating height, and set his eyes on her once he realised she was taking over five minutes.

She was having a hard time trying to get her arms out of her soggy t-shirt without letting the dressing gown fall to the floor, impeding a successful result. Crane did not have patience as a virtue, and didn't particularly uphold it in his ideals either.

He was trying not to twitch at this unfamiliar, odd situation.

"Grace, what are you doing?" She let out a satisfied breath, and ripped the soggy thing over her head and chucked it at him. He caught it with one hand irritably and laid it on the clothes horse. She gazed at him, wondering if she was best to leave now.

She had to admit those clothes were gone forever.

It was not likely she was going to step a foot in here again.

Her heart still pounded ever so hard, she wondered if he could hear it, despite the machine. She couldn't help but think of him as an irritant and a stimulant simultaneously. His demeanour had changed since the archive situation.

She could only think he was up to something, wanting something. His sudden hand of kindness was possibly more unnerving than the insults and the concussion she nearly obtained from the struggle in the library. He stared at her for a long moment.

She wasn't sure if he could see her very well, his eyes wavered a bit.

He then stepped closer, to improve his view, it seemed.

"What's with the robe?" he asked suddenly. She frowned, thinking it would have been obvious. She shook her head in annoyance.

"I'm not going to justify that question with an answer, Jonathan."

"Your…" he motioned to her legs that were still clad in her black leggings she wore for work.

"Leggings?" she finished for him. He nodded.

She had trouble slipping them off, having to grab his desk for support as she peeled them off. She remembered, oddly, seeing her pasty legs, that she hadn't shaved her legs for a couple of months now.

She wasn't sure why she cared what he thought.

She stood in the warming room, the air circulating around her bare legs. It could be homely if it wasn't for the man standing in front of her. She took a step back, and feeling slightly unsettled picked up a piece of paper which was littered with spidery handwriting. It was barely legible, but all she could see were formulas and chemical equations. He was doing psychology, she frowned.

Wait. No he wasn't.

She let it back down onto the desk.

His sleek laptop, closed sat on the desk, under a pile of jumbled papers.

She saw his car keys, beside what looked like a rather old Nokia mobile phone.

She was so tempted to look at it; find out what his game was, despite knowing it would raise her suspicions. She wasn't sure why but she was desperate to find out what Dina had sent him. He was peeling off his shoes and socks now, and was having a hard job of it. She leant over, and placed her fingers around the cold black plastic carefully.

She pressed one of the buttons with her index finger.

Nothing.

She wasn't going to risk turning it on, especially if it made a noise. He moved upwards suddenly and she flung the bit of paper down and folded her arms, casually looking around his room.

Then he did something which deeply shocked her. He took his trousers off.

He shrugged them off fairly easily, and arranged them neatly on the clothes horse. She widened her eyes.

Of all the different encounters she had with men, this was the strangest. His legs were hairier than she imagined, reminding her that indeed he was not a schoolboy any more. She felt deeply embarrassed.

Grace hugged her arms around her body, as if protecting herself.

Glancing at her now, almost as if he had forgotten about her, he walked close to her.

"Anything else you need drying?"

If you think I'm taking my knickers off you have another thing coming, mate, she seethed in her head. He was staring at her hard.

She could tell he was greatly enjoying this game of cat and mouse.

"No, I think I'm fine," she replied in the strongest voice she could muster. He widened his eyes purposefully.

"Are you sure?" She nodded slowly hastily, not sure what he wanted.

When he put both of his hands on the cusp of her dressing gown, Grace felt like knocking him back a mile, taking her things and running as fast as she could go. If she hadn't been intimidated or frightened before, she was definitely now. Still, she kept her resolve and swallowed what felt like a large lump.

Remember, she thought, you have to keep calm in front of him. Nothing like showing your fear incites him more.

It was difficult to think this, as the shrilling in her ears began, a keening note of hysteria.

"I'm not in the mood for another knock-about. Thanks for drying my stuff."

She tried to turn to go, heart going at the rate of a supercharged turbine.

Her sarcasm wasn't working that well today.

"Let me see," he muttered quietly. She raised her eyebrows incredulously.

He tried to pry open her robe, but she pulled away roughly, having had enough.

"What the fuck, Jonathan? Are you that deprived?" He looked starved.

Perhaps he hadn't been with Dina. However she swore she thought that banging she heard at the beginning of the semester was a copulation session. What else could it have been?

"Grace…" he almost pleaded with her.

He looked ridiculous in his long white shirt and bare legs. She stared at him in amazement, trying to work him out. Her toes curled beneath her in fear. He was about to discover her best-kept secret. He knew it.

There was a predatory, desperate look behind his eyes.

"What makes you think you have a right? You will only analyse it and use it against me. Like you do with absolutely everything else."

The usual dark look flickered over his face, but drained away as he began to talk.

"So you think you know me?" he spoke coolly.

"You only present a certain side."

She was going to tell him to piss off once more, but decided against it, and turned sadly away from him, walking towards the door. She didn't even get to touch the cool metal handle of the door, before she felt his hands on her once again.

He turned her around roughly, and she immediately squirmed in his arms.

"Get off!" she snapped. He was holding the front of her gown again, gently tugging at it.

She tried to push him away, but he wasn't letting up. She began to panic.

"Please, Grace, I mean you no harm…please…" he rasped, nearly begging her.

She frowned and stopped her struggling. He was acting eccentric, a look in his eyes she hadn't seen before. Looking at him, she began to think Dina had never been around for romantic affiliations. He was incapable of that.

She did not feel any sympathy for him whatsoever; but she did sense his isolation from other people. She had only been around him mostly in the house, but outside, every other person he had greeted with that sly, haughty expression and tone of voice.

She relaxed, wondering what his reaction would be.

If anything funny happened, the door was there, and Lisa was only ten minutes away, no matter what the time. Then she remembered Lisa still hadn't replied to her message.

Then she remembered she left her phone at work. She saw from the glowing red figures on his small alarm clock it was nearing midnight.

He slipped, gently, the gown over her shoulders, pushing it over her arms and down her back until it plopped to the floor.

The tips of his calloused fingers ghosted over her forearm.

She knew she had put on a bit of a weight; it had amounted in her chest and in her little pouch of a tummy. The bra was greying a little, desperately asking to be thrown in the bin, but it was well fitted.

It shaped her chest as if it was a sports bra instead. The lacing over the bra was intricate but unadorned. The bra was not exposing much breast however. He wasn't looking at her eyes, although she kept a questioning, daring look on her face.

His fingers didn't move from her forearm, as he brushed the hairs on her arm backwards and forewords delicately. He suddenly took a step forward, dragging his eyes up her stomach and torso, and rested on her shoulders. His thin fingers clasped the straps of her bra.

Grace was quick to move, and batted him away.

"That's enough," she snarled.

She went to pick up the gown once more. In that brief second of her bending down to pick her gown up, his fingers snapped against her back and when she pulled herself up, the garment loosened around her immediately.

"Oh for God's sake!" she snapped, more in agitation than in fear, and immediately held her arms together, red-faced and horribly annoyed.

She felt like she was being exploited. He couldn't have her mind, so he thought he'd have her body instead, or first. She managed to pick up her gown again, and didn't even bother to throw it on. She darted for the door, and pressed down on the handle and pulled. The musty air in his room was cold on her chest. The door shook in its frame, but the handle was stuck. Christ, her mind panicked.

He was behind her again, whispering to her, but she was not listening.

_Don't fear, Grace, there's nothing to be frightened of. _

She sighed, but not in defeat, and realised he had locked it.

She turned to him with an angered expression, ready to finally give him a piece of her mind. She then felt his long-fingered clammy hand on her forearm once more, and spun her around so forcefully the gown was flung out of her hands.

They met nose to nose, and she pulled back immediately, as if she had come face to face with a tiger.

He kept one bony hand on her forearm, while the other tore the fragile bra away. He chucked it to the floor like it was an annoying piece of rubbish.

She was flabbergasted, mouth opened.

She had never seen him this close before; they had always kept a respectable distance, apart from the painfully close encounter in the library.

There was a loose array of faded freckles on his skin, something vaguely human about him that threw her off guard and made her forget what she was supposed to be hiding.

He breathed very slowly through his nose, in shock she knew, when she saw him glance down to look at her exposed body. He carefully withdrew his hands.

She didn't bother to walk away, or reproach him for this.

Perhaps he ought to know. He seemed fascinated by the other dotted, pin-prick scars on her arms.

The cold of the room caused her pale skin to break out in goosebumps, and the half light of his study lamp on his desk cast an eerie shadow on one half of his face.

"Don't fuck me over," she whispered, so quietly she nearly didn't hear herself.

She couldn't bear to look at him, stuck for words, and instead looked down at her curling toes.

She was missing her right breast.

Even for him, closed tightly like a book and emotionless like a blank white wall, he swallowed the lump in his throat a little too early, and nearly coughed in shock. Despite his initial reaction, he analysed her like he was inspecting microbes under a microscope.

Her left breast, plump, healthy, a trickle of veins crawling their way up the skin hung down in shocking contrast.

Her nipple hardened at the cold air.

She was in disbelief herself.

She wasn't sure if this was the worst thing that had happened yet. Not in her life, of course. It was as if Pandora's Box had been violently ripped open. He just stared at her chest, clad in his socks and shirt, almost looking ludicrous. The entire right breast wasn't entirely missing.

The top right of it still sat there awkwardly, the skin pale and sickly looking. She would still have some cleavage; even if she had shown anything previously he had not noticed. A shocking pink scar ran across the empty space, starting from the edge of her chest, until it reached the end of the fat that was still her breast. The skin was tightly stitched together, and the pieces of skin around the missing fat crinkled, like a section of material had been bunched together.

It hadn't healed very well. The tight line which was the scar itself was a deep red colour, and around the skin, tender and thin, were dots of mauve, white and light pink, as if she was bruised.

It looked like she might have been involved in an accident, staring at the empty space where most of the breast used to be.

"Are you satisfied now?" she breathed, very quietly.

"Was this what you feared?" He spoke hoarsely, ignoring her question.

She was avoiding his eyes, unable to look at him. She couldn't bear to look at him.

He placed a single thin white finger under her chin, tilting her head up, forcing the icy tip deep into her skin.

"You told everyone I was a junkie. You might as well tell them I'm half a woman," she challenged him, narrowing her eyes. She wasn't sure if his threat of telling everyone had been true. She had not come across any hostile glares, or various rebukes or remarks.

Nothing was an empty threat with him, but it seemed that last admonishment when he had hit her had been untrue. He was just adding the fuel to the fire. Perhaps it would have not mattered to her if she had small, pert breasts, but since her awkward teenage years, they had been large and always hung down in that obstructing way of theirs.

She nearly jumped back in shock when she felt his cool fingertips press against what little breast remained. She tingled at the sensation.

Her mouth was dry as dust.

He didn't touch her other intact breast, which was tingling, much to her annoyance. He lightly skimmed his fingers over her scar, and her body automatically erupted in goosebumps.

He drew away, and unemotionally peeled his socks off.

Then he hung her bra on the clothes horse, delicately aligning the thing so it would dry right. When he seemed reluctant to touch it any further, he span back round so quickly she flung her arms in front of her chest instinctively and stepped back, heart beginning to beat fast once more.

Her legs nearly gave way under her. He grabbed her by the fleshy upper arms and pressed his mouth over hers. Her gasp of shock was swallowed by his insistent mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut in response.

He didn't draw her into him. He just kept his mouth on hers, as if unsure how to proceed. He then nipped sharply at her lower lip, savouring her abrupt gasp of pain, drinking it in like a vampire with blood. He imagined briefly it was fear, her gasp, and an undeniable pleasure shuddered throughout his body, making his muscles tighten.

He pulled back, a metallic taste on his lips.

He licked it away, like an animal. She was staring at him owlishly, eyes wide as they could get, her mouth open.

A dark blob of blood was on her lower lip. Gingerly he pressed his lips back on hers, almost experimentally again, and began to kiss her once more. He sucked at the blob of blood.

She tried not to cringe.

Harder and harder he became, almost as if he was trying to realign her jaw. He was sloppily kissing her.

She had been through several very bad kisses, but this was entirely different.

When his tongue began to slither its way into her mouth, grazing against the bottom of her teeth, she had enough. She pulled away roughly, wiping his saliva off her mouth with the back of her hand roughly.

Her lips were going to be very sore and dry in the morning.

She scrunched her face up in revulsion, and wiped again at her mouth. She saw some of her blood from her lip on his chin.

She frowned at him in disgust, surmising he had not done this very often in his life. But his lips were just as puffy and red like hers, despite her not reciprocating the haphazard gesture.

He appeared as if he was not sure what to do next, surprised with himself, yet he kept that particular haunting look on his face. She couldn't believe this had happened – that it was happening.

She couldn't believe this very man, who had physically and verbally abused her, treated her out to an awkward dinner, drove her almost to fury, was suddenly lusting for her.

Perhaps he just needed to 'get some', she thought sarcastically. He was gazing at her in that way again, as a man would look at a woman.

"How?" he rasped.

She stared at him, aghast, heart pumping and pumping wildly.

"I will only tell you if you tell me how you received those pock-marks on your face."

His hands tightened into fists at her words, and he stared at her, as blankly as he could. It was failing though, as much as he prolonged the blank look; it looked like his shortened nails were finally digging into his skin, and she saw the distinctive bulge at the edge of his pointed jaw; his teeth were tightly gritted.

She gathered he was not likely to share this secret of his; regarding the fact that it probably was a secret, due to his teeth grinding motions. Then he spoke, when she turned away from him to reach for her gown.

She didn't stop however.

She swiped the fluffy warm dressing gown she so cherished off the ground and tightly wrapped it around her body, like a suit of armour. It was with a slow trickling sense of dread like running golden syrup she remembered the door was locked. By the time she had turned back around, sighing, he had taken a step forward.

"Let me guess, something to do with the other small barely-visible scars on your body?"

Grace didn't answer him; she just stared, narrowing her eyes.

Then she opened her mouth; she could have regretted it, but she was getting claustrophobic and desperate to be out of the room.

"Let me guess," she whispered, echoing his words. "Those marks on your face, look like they came from birds? They're not acne scars."

He pursed his lips, and suddenly grabbed a pair of tatty pyjama bottoms from under his duvet and angrily shoved them on. He looked a bit ridiculous in his white shirt and pyjamas.

"That's very observant," he shot back.

She rolled her eyes, in exasperation.

"It's going to be some sob-story, right? Your abusive father used to lock you in the attic room with the pecking birds."

"You've got the right idea, even if that's not it," he said back. He was smirking a little, although his eyes wavered; he couldn't focus on her form properly without his glasses.

The smirk broke the thin white smoothness of his skin, like an old wound resurfacing.

She particularly didn't want to know anymore.

"Could you unlock the door, please?" she spoke.

There was a sudden heavy weighing on her shoulders, the entire process of her anxiety this evening, him stripping her of what little remained of her dignity, and then slobbering over her mouth like some rabid dog.

She couldn't help but feel he had lost of some this aura of arrogance that demanded respect, being carried around like a prized trophy.

"You still haven't told me." Her lips were beginning to feel chapped, and sore. She was dreading the moment she would glance at herself in the mirror; another mark he had made on her again. She felt disgust rise like bile in her throat.

"An infection," she spoke impassively, her cold voice echoing through the room. "It spread. The cells inside died, before I realised it was too late. They had to remove it."

It took every inch of her very moral being not to break before him, even though her voice wavered like a pendulum, ready to strike for that fate.

"And you know what? I think I would have rather lost an arm, then this."

Her eyes flickered at her bitterness, but she pushed it down. There was nothing anyone could do about it now. It was her past, it happened three years ago, when she was only twenty one. But that was all a faded memory, time that had been lost, swept away with the wind. He was looking at her blankly.

As a final sense of obligation, or duty, he reached for his glasses that were on his dusty bedside table and put them on.

She didn't make way for him, as he moved to stand beside her and unlock the door, the brief whoosh of air lifting into her nostrils. Staleness – a mixture of clothes that had been stored in a damp, old room, mixed in with a strange strong aroma, presumably his aftershave.

She glanced at his clean-shaven jaw and saw a tiny nick in his chin.

He opened the door sharply for her, whisking the chilly air of the hall hitting her with a gritty resonance. He turned to look back at her. His room was a sauna, warm and almost inviting, compared to the coldness of the empty, old house. She frowned and twisted her head to look up at him.

His gaze was clear.

Here or out there. She made her split second decision.

She took a step down into the hallway and his door slammed sharply behind her, jerking her forward with sudden fright. The door had been slammed so hard, that it had shook in his frame a little, and the draught that ran constantly in the house stopped for a mere moment.

Grace was left in the cold, dark hallway of her student house.

Shrugging, she walked back to the safe recess of her room.

It had been a very strange night.

* * *

He threaded simple, medical, black thread through the needle, pricking his thumb, underneath the harsh light of his study lamp.

Silently, he put the needle and thread back down and sucked on his thumb, lost in thought.

He savoured the metallic taste of his blood.

He'd gone through several throughout the past couple of years, never having been satisfied. As he sat there in his room, pondering, turning the ghastly, rough burlap over and over in his hands, he nearly shivered in pleasure at the thought of the day he'd let Grace see it –

His thoughts were broken as he heard blasts of music coming from her room.

She was trying to aggravate him – ever since their last encounter a night ago, she had behaved coldly towards him, colder than he could ever imagine. It was interesting. He didn't think she had it in her. But he couldn't decipher it, very well. Unfortunately he had dealt with more male mental minds than female during his years. He had to admit, it had never occurred to him about female minds, in particular.

He'd only ever thought of one female mind, one that decided to reject him many years ago.

He would have loved to pick that mind apart, find out the real reason, why she decided the other boy was better than him. He thought about getting rid of Gilmartin. If she ever found out, decided to open that loud, awfully brash mouth of hers.

How he might do it.

Perhaps he'd give her a concentrated dose, see if it would work, let her slip into a seizure and slowly let her body fade into death.

But this was a small country, a small place, he could be easily found out. He'd have to tread his steps carefully.

He grew excited, elated, clutching the mask in his hand, stroking it almost tenderly.

It was him. He could only think of this now, this and his work, as the true him.

He could no longer bear to look at his pale, thin face without his mask.

He couldn't think of himself as a person without it.

'Don't worry, you'll be put to good use soon. It's only time, only time…' he rasped. He stuck the needle forcefully into the rough material, this time ignoring the pin prick to his skin.

* * *

**A/N**: The Rhyddings pub, is pronounced 'Ridd-ings.' It's a real pub and I imagined it to be on Grace's street. It's eeriness always reminded me of The Leaky Cauldron in Harry Potter books.


	12. Cloud Nine

**AN; Sorry it's been so long since I updated. Very busy year so far.**

**Brief note about the title of the story. The title is used as the expression, not _literally_ 'Saving Grace.' I wouldn't want any misconceptions about Crane _saving_ Grace. Good Lord, no. The character's name is Grace, just for a twist. To refresh your memory (and mine haha) about the meaning – it is a redeeming quality, especially one that compensates for one's shortcomings. **

* * *

The wind was raw outside, raw and icy, spitting particles of ice and rain along with it. Grace lay in her bed, and turned her head stiffly to the alarm clock next to her that glowed neon blue. It was after eight o' clock in the morning. Brilliant white light filled the room. She heard the hard patter of rain outside and the wind which whistled through the window might have felt content and comforted on any other morning. She couldn't this morning, however.

She had dreamt a strange and silly dream about tigers inside the house, yet as soon as her eyes cracked open, her lips began to throb and the thought of his slobbering mouth on hers brought her back harshly into reality. An interminable sense of sadness rose in her chest. She couldn't move, her limbs her stiff, warm and cosy under her rather 1970s old lady-ish duvet cover. She stared up at the high ceiling above her, the patterns of white paint swirling around in her view if she stared at it for long enough.

It seemed the correct thing to do, to get out of bed, even if to her it was horribly early. She wasn't sure if she wanted to get out of bed, let alone the room. There was a sudden creak of the floorboards on the landing; she heard it through the wall on her right. She stayed stock still. There were no other noises for a few minutes, and then she heard the water pipes in the house clunking loudly.

Someone was filling the kettle up. It was him that only filled her mind that morning, as she continued to lie there. Her heart twisted further when she remembered that Lisa had not texted her back, and further still, when she realised she had left it at the archive. The emotions that went through her as she slipped into bed last night, not even bothering to make a cup of tea, was that she felt indifferent and that the strange night they had spent in each other's presence had been some sort of closure.

She went to bed, exhausted, and uncaring. However, all those thoughts seemed to have drifted away, like excess, dirty water down a drain, unable to be rescued. Her limbs were stiff, and her neck and back ached after she lay very still for an hour or so. It was just after nine when she groggily got up. She showered first. She scrubbed at her body hard, for some reason, particularly at her scarred chest. How did he know? How did he guess? Grace could not remove these irritating thoughts and questions from her mind, as the hot shower water streamed down upon her.

The water trickled down her face in rivets, tickling her eyelashes and then into her ears. She had kept it covered at all times. Perhaps he was very astute. At first she thought he merely wanted to see her naked, like any other man. That was not his goal. No, it was some sort of power thing with him. Now that he had her scars figured, perhaps he would make a better effort of scathing remarks. At first they had hit her on impact, like a gush of forceful water, a huge tidal wave. Now it was the equivalent of someone scattering bits of pebble or soil over you; irritating, but harmless. She dressed herself; suddenly the affecting weight of her missing breast was on her mind.

She felt ugly again. It had taken three years for her to block it out, to feel good again, to try and feel feminine once more, despite the fact she was just a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl. She only owned one dress, she thought, frowning as she tied her laces up on her pink converses. No other man had seen her with the missing breast.

The boys she had kissed within the last two years had never gone back with her, or she with them. She slipped on a pair of jeans and a camisole. She grabbed her grandmother's old cable knit cardigan and decided she'd be having breakfast in town instead, after she went to collect her phone from the archive. Grace did not want to chance it with Crane; she wasn't sure how she was going to face him now. She needed someone to boost her confidence, but right now Lisa felt far from her, totally useless. She grabbed her house keys off her dresser and opened the door slowly, scanning the dark landing.

She closed her bedroom door quietly behind her before descending, cursing when her foot slipped slightly on the steep steps.

She could hear him in the kitchen, making his coffee. He never had the radio on. She rushed to the door, trying not to run, and opened the door, slamming it behind her. She half darted down the road, the chill of the air meeting her harshly. She drew her hood up. The air was frosty and her cheeks and the tips of her fingers were suddenly icy cold. She walked fast all the way across campus, still not convinced she had outrun him.

* * *

Meanwhile, after Jonathan Crane heard the girl slam the door, just as he finished making his coffee, which he sipped and then disgustedly threw down the sink, made his way upstairs. She had been in such a rush, in order not to bump into him, and then she had forgotten to lock her bedroom door. Without hesitancy, he let himself into her room with ease.

He could smell her deodorant in the air, and a whisk of perfume. The bottle, some brand he didn't care to recognise, was lying on its side on the wooden dresser, as if thrown down hastily. Her bed was unmade.

Her night clothes were thrown on the floor in haste. There was a tiny chink in between the 1970s floral curtains, which were faded over time. The light that streamed in and fell into the room was very weak. He could hear the pitter-patter of rain on the roof above him.

He placed a bony finger on the end of the bed, on the bed knob, fingering it almost affectionately, as if deciding what he should touch first. He felt cleaning her room up, it was extremely untidy. Half a dozen unclean clothes were littered on the floor, uncaringly. He began to rifle through her things, savagely. He didn't pay attention to what she had in her wardrobe, unused to the layout of the typically English room. He picked through her cosmetics first.

She had very little makeup. Moisturiser, he picked off the lid and smelt it. That made sense; he could smell that creamy, fresh smell on her skin when he had….last night.

He shook the memory from his mind and continued to rifle. He began to get bored of her everyday things. He opened the drawer in her dresser, and found nothing of interest inside. He went through her desk drawer, as if examining criminal evidence. He pulled out a sketchbook. He raised his eyebrows at first. Highly detailed sketches – although not of still life, or people or of animals. Well – they were people. _Had been._

All that littered the book was pictures, some quite grotesque, of dead bodies. The last one, looked like it had been sketched from a photograph which was personal, it had a touch of the private about it. It was a withered, little old lady lying down in what appeared a hospital bed. She had one tube going into her nose. Her eyes were closed, the corners of her mouth sagging. She seemed at peace with herself, at last. It was in a small hospital room.

He closed the book impersonally and shoved it back into her drawer. His eyes swivelled, knowingly, towards her bedside table, and saw a framed photograph of a middle-aged woman, with curly red hair and a puckering smile, a cigarette in one hand.

He felt himself smirk inside, calculatingly. He saw a few books in the corner of his eye. He rifled through some of her books. A couple of books by an author unknown to him.

JM Coetzee. A couple by another, Kate Mosse. He pulled out a rather ancient-looking book, with rounded hardback corners, the original material splitting, and brown crinkly pages. A poetry book. He raised his eyebrows dubiously. He didn't pin her for that kind of girl. He pulled it out; rather gloomy poetry.

A glossy book, named 'The Art Book' which is eyes barely flickered over, before he got to a very thin laminated book at the end. He leant over the chair that was placed beside her dresser and pulled it out by the top of its spine with his long fingers easily. An unusual look shuddered through his face, and his eyes glazed over with a faraway look as he stared at the title wordlessly.

It was named, quite explicitly, 'The Fear and Anxiety workbook.' The skin on his fingers tightened in recognition, whitening dramatically, and a certain kind of voracity amounted in those clear, cut-like-glass eyes. He placed it back in its place. He picked out her mobile phone from his pocket, and gingerly placed it on her desk, which was left of the dresser. He put it in a noticeable spot deliberately. His eyes glided idly around the room, almost as if he was bored. There wasn't much else. He went through the drawers of her desk, finding nothing else.

He so desperately wanted to find out why she had such a book in her room. He was familiar with the book, he had used it in one of his lectures, a few years ago, before….He twisted back around to the door and let himself out, making sure beforehand nothing was out of place.

He left the room with the smell of her moisturiser still wafting through his senses.

* * *

By the time Grace returned home, she felt drained and weary. She had spent the day in the art studio, becoming tired and uninterested halfway through, almost as if she had lost the will to live. She had no art session today, but Lisa had not bothered to turn up either, which made her feel worse.

Lisa was her only life support, her path to reality, and Grace seemed to have been cut off from the only source of comfort. On occasion, throughout the day, she had been tempted to phone her mother, and sort things out right there and then. But she remembered again that her phone was lost, after asking for it at the archive. She would have to obtain a new phone, and a sinking feeling began in her heart, descending down to her stomach.

The art studio was quite silent throughout the day, apart from the other sessions that were spread from every other hour. She had barely achieved anything in the day either, apart from print off various photographs that were related to her project, and some research for her artist journal.

She had managed to purchase a brown papered notebook, suitable for her journal, but it had sat there in her room in vain, brand new, desperate to be used.

What if she were to phone her mother, or father, would they accept what she had to say? She imagined her father would be eager to hear from her, and possibly would have accepted her heartfelt apology by now, but he would sound disinterested. He'd be too busy with things happening at work. And her mother; where would she start? Her mother would be very unforgiving. She had a harsh judge of character, and ever since a young age, despite her close relationship with her mother, had been constantly pressured to be 'good.' She was anything, but 'good.'

It didn't help that her mother was a strict Catholic, virtues were very important to her. She had been a very laid-back child and teenager, pleasing her mother no end, apart from the various teenage strops, or the arguments about bringing a boy back. She never did, in the end. Lack of interest accounted for one, pure embarrassment counted for another.

She was a saint until University, which ripped the white gown from her until she was left in rags. No longer allowing herself to dwell on the thoughts of her mother, who never quite showed enough love for her, leaving her feeling forever lonely and unloved; Grace took a slow walk back home.

In fact, she had such little interest in the world around her that she didn't notice it had stopped raining as she walked back home, in the dark. She didn't even notice her shift had started just less than five minutes ago. She was immune to the darkness of the house as she approached it, and whether Crane was inside, ready to verbally or physically abuse her.

Deciding she would eat a load of junk for the evening, from things that were leftover from her large shopping hangover spree, she let herself into the dark, icy cold house that even brought the hairs to rise on her arms even under her coat. She took two steps at a time as she went upstairs, dumping her utensils and holdall on the floor of her room. She placed her dry coat on the back of the door. Her room was dark, quiet.

Her curtains were still mostly shut, with the twinkle of the town shining through the little crevice. Her room smelt stale, but also of her. She switched the main light on, sensing suddenly it was eerily quiet in the house. No running of water, no creaking floorboards. It was as if he had permanently moulded into the house, and was keeping her within his clutches. She shrugged and made her bed, picked up the dirty clothes from the floor, placing them into her laundry sack.

It took her a maximum of ten minutes before she noticed the chipped mobile phone lying on her desktop. When she did so, her cheeks rosy red from the exertion of cleaning her room quickly, a frown enveloped on her face. It was definitely wasn't there this morning, she thought. She picked it up, and went through her phone, it was intact as normal.

Lisa still hadn't replied. She threw it down on her bed, sighing a little. She didn't want to push it – tonnes of negative thoughts flew throughout her mind, but if she persisted and sent another text, it would only lead to her frustration with herself.

Besides, despite the fact that Lisa had not replied to her, the unyielding fact that her phone had suddenly reappeared mysteriously in her room made her blood turn to ice. He had been in here.

It could only make sense – she had stupidly run out of the archive yesterday, leaving her phone on the table. He had her phone for around twelve hours. She glanced around her room in slight panic, trying to remember if she left anything out. No, nothing. It was only her phone that might have held anything dubious. He might have rifled in her drawers and come across tampons.

She stifled a snort. He might have found an unused pack…used pack of condoms, she thought, correcting herself, thinking of Lisa's housemate, Ben. Then her eyes drifted to the mostly empty bookshelf, and she noticed one book had fallen over, flat on its face. A sinking sense of realisation came to her. She picked up the flat, thin book, and gazed at the hateful title. That had been soon after she had given up. Stopped.

Why did she keep it – was it a safety net, just in case? She tossed the book into the bin, glad to be rid of it, although its stifling presence still marred the room. And he must have seen it. How dare he….

She had been so rushed this morning, desperate not to bump into him and receive that patronising stare that she had forgot to lock her door. She'd been reckless enough to storm out last night, fed up with him, that she had left her phone on the table, in his reach. She felt like putting Nazareth the band on very loud, just to annoy him, but since they provided suitable lyrics, she wasn't averse to it whatsoever.

Songs with suitable lyrics often helped her through particularly difficult people, such as ex-boyfriends or problematical flatmates. Calming down, deciding against a cigarette, she found a bottle of vodka that she had left over from the other night. She unscrewed the cap and smelt the inside, delicately, her nose accidentally brushing the glass top. Memories of freshers, drunken nights, and hungover mornings, badly cooked food and a messy campus kitchen fled through her mind. It brought a slight smile to her face. She tipped a bit back down her throat, letting the strong alcohol singe its way down.

She pursed her lips in reaction and screwed the cap back on. Dutch courage was her only support at the moment. She hid her phone under her mattress, not wanting to take any chances. She would hand the book into a charity shop or library the following day, as she picked it out of her bin.

She changed out of her clothes, leaving her underwear and socks intact and slipped on a long, moth-eaten jumper that came to her knees. She abruptly remembered the landlord had left a CD player, a black elongated thing, originating from the 1990s, in the bottom of her wardrobe. She rootled around for it, and then rootled some more, picking out a Billie Holiday CD. She slipped the CD into the player, and made her way downstairs.

Her heart thumped extremely hard, until she plugged the player into the socket in the kitchen, and Holiday's melodious voice filled the room with a pleasant, calming effect. She began to make risotto, chopping up some vegetables first, then moved on to a chicken breast. Unaware of her surroundings, she soon became indifferent to Crane once again, and hate filled her faster than a flash flood.

Grace decided she'd have the risotto, then a teacake with tea afterwards, then she would move onto her chocolate. She knew she was emotionally unfulfilled, perhaps physically. So all she could so was fill the area with food. She was lonely, desperately lonely. Scarred, insecure, and now constantly nervous because of a man who terrorised her. She felt it was only the beginning with him. She didn't have that close relationship she had so depended on with her mother, and her father never took more than a mere interest.

All her old friends had drifted away from her like loose leaves off a tree. Tears rose to her eyes as she chopped up the last of the chicken, and threw it into a frying pan. The vegetables were simmering in the saucepan on the stove behind. Despite her attempts to force her tears back, grinding her jaw, she could not help but hum to Billie Holiday; it filled her with a sense of hope.

She almost felt human again. She ate her dinner, still listening to Billie, while she read a book on a particular artist she had a soft spot for. She was so absorbed in eating her dinner, and focussing on her art project, that she had not heard the creak of the floorboards above her, and that a dark shadow soon fell on the linoleum kitchen floor below her. Her eyes dragged up to look at him.

He was examining her, her or her food, with a contemptuous stare. He was wearing dark trousers, standard of his, with a rather oversized dark teal shirt that hung off his lanky frame in what she could only say in a handsome manner. He appeared exhausted, as usual, dark circles encircling his eyes. She thought she saw a curl of chest hair just above his shirt and pointedly looked away.

She felt his scrutiny upon her, causing her movements to become clumsier. There were still bits of food left in her bowl, but her appetite had vanished as soon as she had set eyes on him. Still, she moved the fork into her mouth. By making pretence of eating, she gave herself countenance. She broke the silence, seeing he was daring to move from his spot.

"There's risotto left if you want some." She could only be a simple, kind housemate. Her words echoed in the air, left unused, pointless. He frowned.  
"No, thank you," he civilly refused, but his voice was cold. She rolled her eyes, as usual. She threw her fork down into the bowl, and stood up, the chair squeaking behind her. He didn't waste a moment more, and pushed past her to make his coffee, taking out a filter paper, and adding the exact amount of coffee. He muttered something which she heard, but ignored.

_Keep rolling your eyes and you might find a brain back there. _

She noticed he didn't take sugar this time. She began to wash her things up, and palpably threw all her risotto into the bin, making sure it made a racket. Waste not, want not, but she had offered, which had been respectfully declined. She also noticed that he did not use the cutlery that the house offered originally. He used the house's plates, but with his own plastic cutlery. Deciding she wanted a cigarette after all, she opened the drawer, finding her cigarette packet, but stopped halfway. His back was turned to her; he was stock still, waiting patiently for the kettle to boil. There was a funny smell coming from the packet. Opening it slightly, she sniffed it and drew back a little, wrinkling her nose.

She peeked inside. There was nothing wrong with it; but it held a strange smell….the last one she had smoked had made her feel weak, woozy almost. She looked at his tall stature, at his dark blue shirt, rolled up to the elbows, one hand stuffed in a trouser pocket. Something bulged at the right trouser pocket, where his hand was. She stormed over to the bin, and threw the packet away, along with the papers, and filter tips. He was playing her…

"Is there enough water in there?" she tested. He didn't look at her, as the kettle flicked off, once the water boiled.

"Should be," came his swift, clear cut reply. She took out her mug from the sink, swirling some fresh water around inside, cleaning it out, then plonking a new tea bag inside. She licked her lips nervously. Take the bull by the horns. "So, you're not going to talk about last night?" She spoke, her words echoing in the room. She saw his shoulders stiffen visibly, and she delighted in the sight. He turned mechanically, throwing the filter paper for the coffee into the bin roughly.

"Why is there a need to?" He replied coldly. He was stirring his coffee, his back still turned to her. Gosh, she hoped he was blushing. She leaned past him, deliberately brushing against his arm, in order to reach for the kettle, and poured it clumsily into her Minnie Mouse mug, spilling some water onto the counter.  
"Well, I see you've battled your demons out," she said waspishly. She didn't spare a glance for him when he turned around slowly, as she walked to the fridge, pulling the milk out and pouring it into her mug impatiently, not bothering to wait for it to brew. He narrowed his eyes at her, still very clear even behind those spectacles. She pushed the teabag tightly against the side of the mug, feeling rather fed up, and now quite exposed since there was nothing covering her legs. Last night had fallen on her like a curtain of darkness, which made her feel all the more indifferent yet nervous simultaneously. She stirred her tea slowly, wishing he could say something, when he did, her heart dropped.

"What is that lump on your leg?" He was referring to the lump on the inside of her right thigh. Was her jumper really that high? She felt quite warm in the suddenly stifling kitchen.  
"Another interrogation session? Are you practising your psychiatry skills?" She taunted, throwing the tea bag in the direction of the bin. It was just outside the kitchen, in the hallway, and it caught awkwardly on the white door frame, splattering brown spots of tea everywhere. He just looked at her offensively, his nostrils pressed together as he sucked in a deep breath, and yet again his teeth began to grind. She rootled around in her cupboard, blinking her tears furiously away. Don't let him get to you….it was a chanting mantra in her mind. She knocked over a few bottles of spice until she found her treasured bar of chocolate, and broke it into accessible pieces on the countertop, not facing him.

"I got stood on by a horse when I was fourteen. The horse was startled, and the one behind was startled and stood on me. I never went to the hospital, because no bones were broken. My Mum is a very 'Oh slap some ice on that and it'll be fine' kind of woman. That's all there is to it, it's just a memory." She repeated the memory mechanically, as if she had recited it a dozen times. Well, she must have, previous lovers had asked about it. Charlie, her ex, had been startled by it at first, but this man, in front of her, treated like it a specimen for felt like he was expecting a kind of trauma out of it; no, it just happened, that was all. An event, that left her marred physically. That was all. She turned around to look at him, hoping he would answer, not sure she was wishing for him to. Her eyes fell on the now familiar scars on his face.

Why was it so familiar to her? Despite her loathing of him, he was remarkably familiar to her; she had grown used to him, to his various ways, she had almost memorised the various contours of his face and the shape of his figure. He sensed she was staring at his scars, her face eager but pained. She looked like she had lived forty years of life in those eyes.

He tilted his head and fixed her with a deathly stare. The hum of the refrigerator in the background was an unknown warning to her; reality at any moment would crumble away from her fingers. Grace watched him swallow, quite loudly.

"You were right, Gilmartin. Birds. I was eight. I was in an enclosed space. It was my grandmother's doing." He spoke it so sincerely, but he had barely spat the words out, his tone clipped and harsh. She felt some his spat land on her cheek, and she tried her best not to wipe it away. She might have felt sympathy, but the sympathy container in her mind was empty as a lake with no water. Then, then next tumbled out of her mouth.

"Why did you go through my stuff?" His harsh gaze fell, replaced with a confused one. Then he straightened, and reached for his mug of coffee, and made to go. He emitted a deep, throaty false chuckle. She grabbed the sleeve of his shirt, the material silk-like in her fingers, stopping him momentarily, although the shock in his face was evident, not expecting her to act rashly like she did.

"We're not finished, Crane." He laughed that false laugh again; it was glass breaking to the ear drums.  
"Don't bloody laugh – you went through my things – I could sense it," she said to him, pulling his sleeve back roughly, letting the coffee inside his mug slosh over the rim. He either stiffened at her harsh contact or the burning coffee that ran down his thin hand. He turned to her irritably and for a brief second, she wondered if he would throw the coffee over her, and she keeled away, heart thundering in her chest. That made him smirk.

"You did leave your door open." She raised her eyebrows in disbelief, widening her eyes at his obnoxious manner. "I suppose that gave you a right did it – I don't doubt you have done the same with my phone. You creepy son of a bitch. Don't touch my stuff again." She felt like she had been rid of her dignity by a stick insect. There was no dark look in his face now, which she suspected there would be. The light above them began to flicker; the bulb probably hadn't been changed for a year. His smirk seemed to grow wider, and he drew closer to her, like a vulture, sensing a ready carcass at its feet.

He wasn't taking any notice of his burning hand, the skin red and raw looking. She realised she was provoking him to ask her about the anxiety workbook, and she drew away quickly, picking up her cup of tea, despite hearing him drain his down the sink. Steam rose from the metal casing of the sink. When she turned around to look at him again, wanting to push him further over the edge, he was closer than he was previously; the contrast of the freckles and the pock-marks had come into full display.  
"I have to say Grace, it was an educational experience. I now know what make that exquisite facial cream is." She furrowed her brows at him, unsure how to react. His words made her scalp prickle. He couldn't get any creepier, she thought, and then took a sip of her tea, despite burning her tongue. She wasn't sure how close he got, her vision and mind clouded over with sudden panic, until she felt his breath on her pale, exposed neck. Oh God.

Her mind whirred in alarm. She didn't like the thought of touching him, but she did so anyway. She pressed the flat of her palms against his chest forcefully. At first he didn't yield, but she kept her hands on his silky shirt firmly, and pushed against his lean chest with all the force she could muster in her fingers. He stepped back a bit, not expecting her force, and she grabbed her cup of tea, walked around him quickly. She scalded her hand in the process.

She could feel his gaze behind her as she exited the kitchen. His stare made her skin burn. She walked every quickly all the way up to her room and secured it shut. She tried to think of a nearby weapon, just in case. She dug out her nail scissors from her makeup case. That wouldn't do. She'd have to sneak a knife from wasn't taking any chances now.

* * *

It was different several days later. Radically different. The course of the next few days changed. The alternate reality Grace was living soon dispersed and was replaced with a new alternate one. Usually she would hardly see him after such an encounter, not for days on end, but he kept popping up on campus wherever she went.

Lisa apologised for her late reply, or no reply, thought Grace in annoyance. She was stood beside the till in the café of the archive. It was an airy café with large oblong windows and laminated floors. The seating was very modern, with a touch of Ikea about it. Odd light fixtures of different shapes and colours hung from the ceiling, emitting a yellowish glow on the customers below. It was fairly noisy, mostly lecturers or students clustered around the tables. One elderly man had a small shopping trolley bag being dragged behind him at a snails pace. He wore thick rimmed lenses and a flat tartan cap. He wore a drooping bow tie, and his face was puckered into a frown.

A couple of young male students past him, pushing each other playfully.

"Bloody students…" he muttered, making Grace smile a little, trying her best not to laugh. Several students sat with laptops at the tables. There were a couple of middle-aged professors in deep discussion at the far end of the café. One girl had her nose deep in a book. A couple of gangly young looking boys sat at a table, waiting for something or someone, appearing quite afraid of the scene around them. Lisa was dressed in an apron behind the coffee booth, her cheeks flushed, her hair tied up with a pen. She had parrots dangling from her ears. The other boy, dark-skinned and with a height that could match Crane's, stood beside her chuckling about something. Grace wandered up to the coffee booth, smiling a little. She tried not to let the sight of Lisa bother her; somehow she felt like she had been let down, despite it being over a crummy non-existent text message. Lisa greeted her with a large toothy smile as usual and reached over immediately to embrace Grace in a bear hug.

"Babe! How's it going? Got your Earl Grey in one," she spoke cheerfully, her hair falling into her face as she drew away. She whipped out a paper cup, the tea bag's little string and tag hanging over the side. Tea Pigs, was the brand. Grace sipped at the tea straight away, relishing the taste. Lisa smirked at her. Grace raised her eyebrows, waiting for a speech or a statement.

She was still annoyed about the bad communication between them, and it showed all over her face.

"I know. Boys. But I will make it up to you….JK's tonight?" JK's was the University bar on campus, situated in the first main building that you saw when you arrived on campus. It was a hideous 1960s building that had never seen refurbishment on the outside, and even on the inside it hadn't been fairing well either. Lisa had mentioned her distraction, hence the late reply, or as Grace knew, the no reply. The blonde guy she had bumped into in the campus coffee café a month or so ago, had asked her out the other day. Cormack his name was. She had been preoccupied with him ever since, abandoning her work, and what seemed, her social life for him. Grace's heart couldn't help but sink a little. She felt like she had lost an anchor. Some idiot had uprooted that anchor and swam away with it, snapping the rope that held it in place originally.

Grace nodded however; she couldn't pass up a golden moment with Lisa in the student bar. It was always packed, and the drinks prices were pretty good value. Lisa and the other barista, Tim, started humming along to the radio that was playing loudly behind them on the countertop. No one else in the vicinity paid attention to it. Grace didn't pay much attention to the customers who occasionally came up beside her, while she chatted away to Lisa, both of them not caring if their discussion ended up to be one of a very crude matter.

She forgot about everything for a while, chatting away to Lisa good-humouredly, helping them to sing a long a little Tim and Lisa was preoccupied with their ridiculous dancing and faffing around, slapping each other with the dishcloths, Grace saw a tall figure approach her at the corner of her and foremost she wanted to turn away and make a quick excuse, but the other half of her, probably the reckless side, told her that doing such a thing would signal everything she was avoiding; intimidation.

Instead, Grace drew her eyes to the tall figure that was Jonathan Crane, and disdainfully drifted her eyes over his suit unconsciously. A brown suit, with a plain sleeveless sweater. Shiny black shoes, with greasy hair in place. She tried not to cringe; he was looking smart today, but she guessed he always did while on campus. She couldn't imagine him walking around in holey jumpers and tatty pyjama bottoms. Thinking of this calmed her a little, and she no longer felt stiff. Lisa saw Crane straight away, and gave Tim one last hard slap with her dishcloth before chucking it behind her on the countertop.

"Service is a bit slow today," Crane said rather loudly, and haughtily. Lisa wasn't in the least bit fazed. Grace wondered if she had seen the last fortnight of him perhaps she would be.

"Tim, get me an ice-cold douchebag frappuccino with cream and sprinkled arsehole on the top." Her voice was inevitably Welsh-sounding in that sentence.

Tim tried not to crack his straight, tight-lipped face.

"Coming right up, Leese." Dina ruined the moment as she ran up, breathlessly standing beside Crane, putting her hand on his forearm for support, to regain her breath. Grace frowned automatically, her Earl Grey suddenly tasting disgusting in her mouth. She watched Crane grind his jaw, as if trying to chew a particularly difficult piece of meat.

"Hey, could I get a medium skinny latte?" asked Dina. Lisa rolled her eyes.

"Medium is for losers who don't understand the concept of value. Don't get me started on the use of the word 'skinny' on a drink. Try again."

Dina drew her head back as if Lisa had just dribbled on her shirt. She was wearing a rather cutesy floral dress with a Peter-Pan collar and a bright yellow trench coat, a brown bag on her other arm. It was a hideous contrast; Crane was like a tattered greasy leather bag and she was a pot of bright yellow daffodils next to him. Crane started to intervene. Grace felt like she was transported, momentarily into a sitcom.

"That'll be a medium Americano to add," intervened Crane, pushing a fiver on the countertop towards Lisa's jewelled and tattooed hand.

Grace saw the way his eyes barely raked over Lisa's form. It was pure apathy there lingered in his noticed that Dina's hand still lay on his forearm, almost a bit possessively, smiling slightly, seeing that he was paying for her beverage. Dina drew her eyes to Grace and nodded jovially, before rolling them up to Crane, smiling hesitantly. She noticed he had stiffened at Dina's unnecessary contact. Dina did not bother to try and speak once she saw Lisa's dirty look, as she clattered about making the coffees noisily.

It was very awkward; the normalised atmosphere of the café, with the students and the elderly, the sound of the coffee machine going away and the claps of shoes upon wood in the entrance foyer. Grace tilted her head to glance at Dina again. Dina was clear-faced, her skin smooth as a slate, her eyes wide and bright like the morning light and her freshly washed hair hung down in silken locks. Grace tried to avoid her inquisitive gaze, trying to set her eyes on Lisa, but it was becoming increasingly hard not to break her stare.

"So how are you, Grace?" she asked demurely. Crane was staring hard at Lisa, who wasn't taking in the least bit of interest.

"I'm fine." Grace didn't revert to the polite conversation that society expected and her mother taught, leaving Dina to furrow her eyebrows in bewilderment. Grace couldn't help but feel Dina wanted to speak more, to either say something to the towering Crane above her, or at Grace. Her face appeared desperate, for something, although Grace couldn't work out what it was. Crane paid for her drink, and she thanked them with a lovely smile, the whiteness of her teeth startling.

"Gilmartin," Crane nodded his head at Grace, his lips curling into a derisive smile. Grace didn't blink at him or even smile her goodbye. She just scowled at him, darkly. Lisa was leaning on the countertop, frowning at Dina's rather yellow coat. He patted Dina's arm, with a condescending air and then left, whispering a goodbye to her, his briefcase swinging by his side a little too enthusiastically. He seemed as if he had the entire world wrapped around his spindly finger. The sunlight of the day caught on his shiny hair, and then he finally disappeared through the glass entrance. Grace let a bit of air out of her lungs, slumping against the counter, her tea in her hands still.

"Bellend," muttered Lisa gruffly, making Dina glance at her, a slight frown on her face. She wasn't exiting like Crane had. She moved out of the way as a sudden new batch of customers filled in, and Lisa and Tim soon had their hands full. Dina managed to ask if Grace was okay, which might have turned the waterworks on if it had been a few years ago, but this time she just responded like a machine would. The customers were served fairly quickly before Dina swallowed what looked like with difficulty and rolled her large eyes up to Grace.

"I know you know Crane more than most people probably," she began in a very small voice. Grace felt like she had to bend lower just to hear the girl, almost as if she heard incorrectly. She looked hard at Dina, who was an inch shorter than her.

"Not really," she replied, shrugging. A woman to the right of them was mixing up her order and heightening her voice, the bun on the top of her head quivering. Dina looked at her, her face almost taking on a sorrowful hue, her wide saucer eyes about to burst with the anticipation. Grace raised her eyebrows, waiting for Dina to speak.

"Oh. I thought you would-"

"I find him insufferable."

Grace's short reply brought out a sense of relief in Dina, her beautiful face sagged and she clasped her manicured hands together.

"I think I really like him, Gracie, and he's been ignoring me for months. I don't know what to do. He doesn't even accept any invitations from me, and won't ask me round anymore…it's agonising." Agonising would be a wrong description for that kind of situation, Grace thought sarcastically. He was off Dina's back and now on hers. She was shocked however, hearing this from someone like Dina, like a loud plop from a stone had dropped into a still lake, rippling the smooth surface. Grace's eyes ran over the smooth lines of Dina's flawless face, as she blinked nervously, waiting for an answer. What a stupid, naïve little girl! She was in love with his superficial charm, and dress etiquette, those polished shoes and wiry frames to make him appear intellectual. His briefcase always in hand on campus, walking around with his pointed nose in the air like he owned the place….

If only Dina knew how he insulted her, terrorised her, physically abused her… It was the one time, but Grace did not had stopped serving her customers and leant against the counter once more, watching them both. The girl might have had success, she might be smart and beautiful, but she was dry and uninspiring like a shrivelled up prune, so horribly predictable. She blinked at Grace expectantly. Grace felt a wave of sympathy wash over her, knowing that her affections would be forever unreturned.

She placed a hand on Dina's delicate forearm, and tried to pull a thin smile.

"He's very cold, Dina. I wouldn't waste your effort on him. I urge you not to."Dina's eyes wavered for a little, holding Grace's own, and then she pointedly glanced away, biting her lip.

She slowly nodded, as if absorbing the information and waiting for it to sink in. Grace started to feel the dread of a cold beginning to absorb her body like a locust, and she felt the tenderness of her neck as she moved it slightly, a tension ache falling across her forehead. She frowned, and put a hand to her head, kneading the skin, the headache worsening fast. Dina shuffled her feet, chewing on her lip, trying to put her words into a coherent sentence. She appeared as if she was desperate to confess something. Grace turned around and chucked her now empty paper cup into the bin half-heartedly, the thing bouncing on the rim of the bin, and just about landing amongst the other rubbish.

She had to get back home and have lunch; she thought of the cup-a-soup at the back of her cupboard and smiled in contentment. Dina began to speak again, bringing Grace out of her food-induced daze.

"I think he…I might be wrong. But I think he might like you, Grace…" Grace took a moment for it to sink in.

"No…Him like me? Me like him? No, good God, no, _no!_" she exclaimed, mostly in embarrassment, realising she had said no four times. She thought of the other night, and the blush forced itself to her cheeks, which made Dina's stare ever the more finally glanced over at Lisa who was pulling an ugly expression. She leant forward, and tapped Dina forcefully on the shoulder.

"Mate, he gave you a rim job and was done with it. Big fucking _deal._ By hell he ain't her cup of tea, and neither is she to him." Grace stared at Dina and Lisa in astonishment, Dina's eyes looked glassy.

Dina had turned to glare at Lisa offensively, as did several other people, hearing Lisa's vulgar loud mouth.

"But he's obsessed with you; I see the way he looks at you! He's hasn't looked at me for ages!" The girl whined, her accent accentuating her whinging. She wasn't paying attention to Lisa now, having rounded on Grace angrily. Grace raised her eyebrows, an uneasy feeling settling in her stomach, but this was hardly the time for petty, childish arguing, especially over a man who clearly proved himself not to be worth it. Grace lifted her bag up higher onto her shoulder and began to walk away. Dina was obviously hurt by Lisa's unnecessary comment, but Grace wasn't going to pander.

"See you at eight, Leese," she called, not taking any notice of Dina.

Before she could exit the café, Dina pushed past her rather rudely, and hastily made her way towards the exit of the building. Grace couldn't get a proper look at her to see if she had started to shed those tears, but neither did she care. She felt like she had been rushed back to secondary school in a span of five minutes and watched Dina's yellowed form retreat into the distance, across the road and into the huddle of the University's campus. The skies opened at last, spilling more unwanted rain. It had to be the rainiest year, they kept saying, second wettest since records began. There were blue patches of sky, and the sun was soon free of coverage and shone straight through the rain. Grace made her way home, quickly forgetting about Dina and Crane. That evening, she spent wistfully faffing around, her mind clogged with dull, lacklustre thoughts. She brought herself to finally rootle through her wardrobe.

She pulled out a mint green dress she found in a vintage sale in the charity shop the other day, when she had to get away from the house, and campus. It seemed her life only revolved around two places; campus and the house; the dark oppressive house which seemed to suck the life out of her, bit by bit and the hazy chaotic surroundings of the made dinner, and threw half of it away, dissatisfied with her recipe that she made on a whim.

The lights of the town glittered in the background through the kitchen window that she was oblivious to. The kitchen door had been opened a crack, while she cooked, not to steam the windows up, and arguing students from several houses down could hear heard, clear as a bell. On the right hand side, several houses down, someone was playing loud music, the bass booming, vibrating the night's clear air. There was woodsmoke in the air. Grace adjusted the dress on her, peering at her figure through her mirror on her dresser.

She surveyed herself with slight disdain; the dress was pretty with thin straps and a dipping back, with endearing lace around the collar. But her body was not pretty, and the dress was thrown out of shape. Shrugging, she pulled out a pair of tights, and slipped her dolly shoes on, then her coat and bag.

A girl could only do so much. As she walked down the darkened streets, the misty glow of the streetlamps falling onto her every metre or so of the pavement, she didn't once contemplate Crane or Dina, even Crane whom she had not heard in the house since she had been there. The night was oppressive, particularly in the area she lived in. At home, night was always a place that reminded her of the walks she used to take with her mother at Christmas, to look at all the lights people hung up. Now, in this little Yorkshire town, it was a place of uncertainty, of danger.

She could hear distant traffic and distant students. Campus was abandoned, by the time she arrived, after half running through the unlit park. The main student building, full of several shops, the Student Union, the dining room and cafeteria, was alit, and she could hear the boom of music several flights of stairs above her. JK's, the student bar, as usual was packed, and it was mostly with boys, with pints of beer in their hands.

A rugby game was showing on the large flat-screen television at the far end of the room. Grace swivelled her eyes about the room briefly. She remembered her first student bar as an undergrad, full of bright lights and sweet, new smells, but this was dark and dingy like the vague night outside. The wallpaper, 1960s looking, was peeling off the wall, and the floorboards were greatly worn down beneath her feet. The unpolished wooden bar itself was something out of a Dickens novel, despite the bar staff who wore brightly coloured 'FU Student Union' t-shirts, the letters emblazoned over the front.

Blues-rock music was playing in the background, and every so often, people swayed to the music unconsciously. She swivelled her eyes about the crowd for a few minutes, sensing Lisa was probably late, and ordered two pints of cider. She couldn't help but feel the place stank of testosterone, with the glasses of beer, rock music and rugby game on the television. She twisted back round, and saw Lisa dressed in a denim strappy top and mini skirt, showing off her tattoos, her face done up in a heap of makeup.

A few heads turned as she strutted into the macho arena. She spotted Grace straight away, raising her eyebrows in recognition, and waved, slowly weaving her way through the crowd. To Grace's great irritation, Cormack, the blonde new boyfriend of Lisa's, followed close behind. His hair was straggly and he wore an Irish rugby t-shirt. He was carrying two bottles of Desperado's, with lime squeezed in at the top. Lisa greeted her by hugging her tightly.

"What happened to the girl night?" spoke Grace in annoyance. Lisa pretended not to notice.

"Oh Cormack's a rugby fan, I couldn't be mean and say no."

"Not much of a cock block, am I, then?" snapped Grace. "I bought you a pint but might give it to a suitable bachelor for a night of good romping." Lisa stared at her in amazement for a while, too stunned to say anything. Cormack appeared very embarrassed, gripping the beer bottles tightly, averting his eyes towards the telly for a distraction. Lisa snapped out of stupor eventually and pulled a sympathetic smile, mouthing she was sorry. Grace pulled one back, regretting her short fused response.

"All the more for me then," she spoke cheerfully over the noise of the bar. Lisa nodded, and they began to chat for a while, starting from what they were wearing, to the overly masculine atmosphere, to the art project they were both struggling with. Cormack was lost in the rugby, occasionally speaking to another guy on his left, discussing the players. After a while, Lisa drew away from Grace and was absorbed in Cormack, both of them with their arms around each other, sipping their beers.

Grace leant against the bar, soon starting on her second pint. It would hit her soon; she had drunken it far too quickly. A rather ruffled looking twenty-something sauntered up beside her, slogging his pint of Guinness down like it was cranberry juice. She tried to ignore his stares that fell over her every so often; her irritation at the evening was rising higher and higher, soon at the point of no return. He kept eyeing her, but her head did not remotely tilt in his direction.

"Hey, you're wearing a green dress…" He spoke. She could tell he had no intention of giving up easily already, and sighed, sipping her cider bit by bit. Thanks a lot, Lisa, she moaned inside her head.  
"Are you rooting for the Irish? I bet you're Irish…" She rolled her eyes dramatically in front him, and picked up her glass and began to move away from him. Thankfully he didn't say anything more, apart from mumbling that was out of earshot. She leant against the window of the bar, eyes set on the people around her. A gang of boys in each spot, some twenty-somethings, some spring chickens, just about to hit the dot of two and nought. The occasional girl shuffled in-between.

She was surprised there were more boys in here, in past years; the ratio of male to female in a rugby watching session was equal. She then realised that the main half of the students were probably watching the game on a large projected screen in the main dining room.

She could hear cheers from the other side of the wall. The evening had been a failure; her mood was terribly sour, and she was terribly pissed off with Lisa. Grace knew she shouldn't be; perhaps it was selfish of her. And then, in the corner of her eye, she spotted the odd domino amongst them all. Seated at a table, firstly was Dina, prettied up like a china doll, her hair hanging down either side of her face, dressed in a slender dress and coat.

Grace's eyes flicked lazily over towards Crane, who was seated opposite her. Usually she could imagine him appearing horribly uncomfortable at this atmosphere, which wasn't his cup of tea whatsoever, but he was wearing a smile, a pretend smile and a calculated look that nearly broke the usual emotionless expression on his white face. He was dressed in the dark teal silken shirt again, no tie, dark trousers, the back of his sport coat on the chair behind him. She glanced at a pint in front of him. Where the hell is Jonathan Crane and what have you done with him, she mused sarcastically in her mind. Lisa came over to her, saying she needed to piss, when Grace tugged her arm, and signalled towards the couple.

"Oh…well that's another socially-approved evening of copulation for them, isn't it?" mused Lisa. Grace was trying not to crack her still face into laughter. Lisa wandered off to the toilet, and came back, without coming up to Grace again, immediately tugging at Cormack. Grace watched everyone with a faint interest, she was not enjoying herself.

It was a rare occurrence for her not to enjoy herself at a pub. She stayed stock still in her place, not sure whether to walk back over to Lisa, hence being caught by Crane in mid-view. She stayed in her place, hoping Dina wouldn't see her, or Crane. She was nearly at the end of her second pint, surprising herself, and already her head felt like it was swimming in melted chocolate. She leant her head against the window pane, closing her eyes for a brief while. Deciding she needed the toilet, she soon came back and resumed her same spot by the window. Her vision was fuzzing, and her head felt like a loose screw on her neck. She kept yawning, her mouth wide open, and just about in the distance, she could see Lisa's long blonde hair swirling around playfully. She was teasingly fighting with Cormack.

Grace could see the game had ended. How long had she been standing there? The evening had been a complete disaster. She lifted herself away from the wall, and tried to walk steadily away to the exit, shifting her black handbag on her shoulder further, as it slipped off. Some drunken idiot had bumped into her, after imitating an Irish dance in front of his friends.

"Watch it!" she nearly shouted. He gave her a dirty look and turned back round to snigger. She dropped her bag onto the floor. It seemed miles from where she stood – how much had she really drunk? She had gulped it all down like Ribena…. She loomed over her knees to pick it up, and her nose soon collided with the floor. She was seeing just black for a few moments, feeling a cold sensation spread up through her nose. Then a warmness; her nose was bleeding. Someone grabbed both of her upper arms and hauled her up, not very elegant for her, she had probably flashed her underwear to every male specimen in the bar…. The smell of the person who had picked her up like a lost child off the floor was familiar. He oozed of fresh aftershave, but that familiar musty, chemical smell came to her, and she reeled, wrinkling her nose.

"Oi mate, you might want to wipe her nose…" She saw Crane in front of her, although this fuzzy, tinted version of him was much nicer, as she swayed on the spot. She had two pints…In her undergrad days she would have four pints and that still wouldn't be enough. She was growing older now. Crane agitatedly whipped out a rather tatty white handkerchief with force and dapped at her nose roughly.

"Where's Dina?" she managed to say to him.

He didn't answer her, and she guessed the girl went home with a throb in her heart. She cursed herself for her spitefulness. He said he would drive her home, which drew a frown across her brows. Why on earth did he drive all the way to campus? It was a ten minute bloody walk. She refused him in any case, and shifted her handbag once more on her shoulder and made to leave, but he wasn't letting her. The bar was not as busy as it was before, which made her think that she had been on her own for quite some time.

"Grace, you're drunk, you don't really want to be walking home, alone, in the dark, do you?" She gave him a look, knowing he was coaxing her, with that technique he used. Why was he so smitten on fear, she thought, he must know that I've noticed. Still, he was playing on her sensibility now, knowing she wouldn't be so stupid to walk home, raving drunk. Her plans were ruined, she was going to get happily drunk with Lisa, she was going to sleep over at Lisa's, they were going to wake up the next day hungover, and watch films all day, while eating junk food.

She noticed Lisa and Cormack had gone, and a hollow feeling sat itself in her chest.

"Yes, Lisa is gone. She left an hour ago. You were asleep at the bar half the time."  
"I was – at the…bar?" Crane nodded his head, and signalled towards the exit, but did not lead her out by touching her – which was odd; he seemed to like to mollycoddle her. She had his handkerchief in her hand, bloodied from her fall, and she went out the exit, stumbling a little. She glanced down at her dress; it had no stains, thankfully, although her tights were ripped slightly. Crane carefully led her down the steps of the student building, and out the exit, down the wheelchair ramp instead of the steps, into the cold, brisk night. He managed to lead her expertly without touching her much.

She had to stop several times, catching her breath, her feet sore and aching for some reason. One of her best attributes was to sober up quite quickly, and by the time she climbed rather haphazardly into his car, slamming the door after her, her head was a little clearer. She saw he had a bottle of water on the floor of the car.

The floor was filthy – mud up the sides of the door and on the mat. Frowning, she uncapped the bottle, and took a small sip, but spat it out straight away. Her lips puckered at the taste, and she creased her face up in residue of the almost-consumed liquid sat there on the dashboard and windscreen, dribbling down a little. Crane opened the door roughly and plonked himself into his seat. He did not bother with a seatbelt. His hair was tousled angrily over his head, as if it had a mind of its own. Before he shifted the gear into reverse, he saw the bottle in her hand, and immediately glared at her.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice sharp and abruptly snatched the bottle off her. She gazed at him with wide eyes.  
"I thought it was-"  
"Water? Of course, you of all drunken people would presume that. How stupid! At least you saved your gullet by spitting it out." Her mood was no slave to his anger- thank God for Dutch courage.  
"Oh, bugger off!" she shouted, undoing her seatbelt impulsively. "Only you of all people would have some kind of chemical in a _water bottle!_"  
"You're going to prove your stupidity further by getting out," he responded calmly.  
"Well, it's not to me – having to put up with you for another five minutes, I'd rather gouge my eyes out."

He shifted the gear suddenly. He then reversed the car so aggressively that she thought she had left half her vital organs behind. The tyres squealed on the tarmac, and steam rose from them. She gripped the seat tightly, breathing hard, as he turned the steering wheel roughly and accelerated the car onto the road. Grace became panicky in all of a sudden – reckless driving was not her cup of tea, and she did not want to be the body that was pulled out of mangled car wreckage. His jaw was grinding, and he had trouble on occasions with the gear stick, forgetting to change it, so the car's engine made a horrible screeching sound as he rounded a corner. He sped through green lights.  
"It's England, by the way, the cars aren't automated," she reminded him cockily. He just ignored her, which was probably a wise choice, she thought as he revved the engine up the hill that led to their street. The skin inside her mouth was stinging a little.  
"Just what was in that bottle anyway? Was it poison that you're going to slip into my corn flakes one morning?" She ought to drink more often, she laughed to herself in her mind.

"Hold your tongue," he snapped at her. He stopped roughly outside their house, wrenching her forward and back in her seat. She didn't waste anytime in his car, highly unnerved by his behaviour, yet again. If she wasn't tipsy, she wouldn't have accepted his offer of driving her home. She could only be so glad that she hadn't found some stranger and gone off with him instead – although without a doubt it would be far better a night than this one. She walked to the door, fumbling with her keys in the dark, and finally found them, letting herself into the ghostly corridor, bathed in darkness. She glanced through to the living room, seeing a stream of streetlight coming through the chink in the curtains. The place was icy cold as usual, and she was reluctant to take off her coat, goosebumps erupting all over her skin. Still, she slipped off her coat, hearing Crane slam the front door behind her, throwing his keys onto the small hallway table.

She hung up her coat on the end of the banister, and rootled around in her bag for anything she might have lost…she had her keys, she had her purse without the twenty quid she left with, she had her compact mirror...She had…She suddenly felt his cool fingertips on her back, pressing against the backbone that protected her spine. Frowning, she continued to rootle around in her handbag, with more fervour this time, beginning to panic.

"Just leave me alone, Crane," she spoke tiredly.

She had enough of him already, but he wouldn't remove his cool fingertips from her skin. She cursed the low dip of the dress at her back – too provocative for her liking.  
"Oh Jesus – I've lost my bloody phone!" she yelled out angrily, chucking her handbag halfway across the hallway. The bag slammed into the wood-panelled wall, bursting open upon impact. The compact mirror, the purse and keys all fell out lopsidedly, and the mirror smashed into the floor with a final climax. She screwed her eyes up and rounded on him, fire in her eyes.

"Fuck you!" she yelled at him. He stood there with his arms crossed, and to add fuel to her fire, he smirked.  
"A lot of flame in you tonight, Grace. I'm not responsible for the loss of your cell phone."  
"Oh please – don't get smarmy with me, pretty boy. You want to tell me why the hell Dina came up to me, virtually in tears? Have you hurt her, you arsehole?" Crane laughed at her, stepping closer. She was clearly off her head still; she wouldn't be caring about Dina at this hour of the day. It was just an excuse to get angry with him, and how he admired her for it.  
"My, my, I had the impression you hated the girl!" He laughed at her. Grace felt like she was going to explode. She sucked all the breath she could gather in one, through her nostrils and burst out.  
"Go fuck yourself!" He really couldn't abide constant swearing, especially in that voice of hers, it sounded so common and contemptible. Oh, did she really want to spar with him at this time of the night? She was about to walk away, back up the stairs, but he wasn't letting her go so easy this time. He pulled her around by the shoulder, but she swiped an arm at him, completely stunning him for a moment, as she stormed to the kitchen.

"I need a cuppa!" He could never understand her need, or the local people's incessant need for tea, for that matter. It seemed to be the young lot on campus that had their fair share of coffee, but everyone else had to have tea every three hours or so. It was bizarre, like they were hooked on a drug. He couldn't help but follow after her, not finished with her, his rage, his own needs pulsating under his skin. She switched the kettle on, dipping into her cupboard for her tea bags. He was so desperate, as he stormed into the kitchen after her. He was so close. His work was not completed yet, it had been incredibly difficult to create such a chemical over in this country.

He wanted to delve into her mind and find out what was there, and rip it apart like you would easily with tissue paper. How could he make her feel the way he wanted her to, without resorting to hitting her around the face like some trashy scumbag off the streets of Gotham? Meanwhile, Grace was still in a drunken haze, although a lot of it had worn off. She didn't realise he was in the room with her, looking at her with a nasty glint in his eyes. She pushed past him, muttering something vulgar at him, grabbing the plastic bottle of milk. His patience snapped like a thin thread, and he grabbed her by the wrists tightly. So forceful was he that she dropped the milk, the plastic smashing on the floor loudly. She pulled away instinctively; the thought of him touching her was more abhorrent than eating gone off bread.

"You are the storm, Grace Gilmartin," he spoke with a fervent haste, that she craned her head away from him, astonished by his tone of voice.  
His breath was metallic on her face, warm and unpleasant on her cheeks. Her heart pumped faster in all of a sudden, panic swamped her – her mobile, it was lost, she was drunk, Lisa had a boyfriend, they could be round his, she had no one else, he was going to harm her, Oh God, oh God-  
"…which thrashed my very ship; you've proved yourself to be a dangerous enemy. Don't think I noticed your poking about, although lucky for you, you haven't done too much of it. How I admire your insistent pestering, your audacity and morale seeping out like a contagion!" He paused, smiling a little, as if remembering a pleasant memory, licking his chapped lips.

"Your constant revulsion draws me to you. Perhaps you are only worthy by my side?"  
She stared at him, aghast, not sure how to respond. He was talking like he had walked out of a Daphne Du Maurier novel. She was well aware that she had dug a hole too deep this evening to escape out of. He was beginning to cut the blood flow off in her hands.  
"You're mad," she found herself whispering, and looked at his plump chapped lips, unable to stare at those eyes. Those lips smiled eerily at her. She was beginning to melt into his touch – she hadn't been touched for so long, it was as if she had some sort of phantom syndrome, her mother wasn't there to give her those long, tight hugs-  
"My soul is sickened, you think," he replied, sincerely, tightening his hold threateningly on her wrists.

He was getting great satisfaction of feeling her pulse as he held her wrists. Bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-bump…. There was perspiration on her upper lip, and her pupils were dilated. Shame alcohol was in her system and enforced those feelings, but it was fulfilling all the same. She was a rather resilient subject, he'd give her that. No one had back-chatted him as much as she did. She gazed into his eyes fully this time, her mouth opening to talk to him.

"I understand that nobody understands me. No one will want to. And I don't want them to. They will see my past and judge me, very much like you. But I can't pretend to be someone that I'm not. And I don't understand why I don't deserve love as opposed to boys that are unfaithful to their girlfriends or vice versa."  
Was she being sincere with him? He raised his eyebrows incredulously, but then his lips curled into a sneer.  
"Is that's what's getting you, Grace? This jealousy of Miss Dina Mackay?" Grace's face dropped at his cackle of laughter. He had completely misunderstood her; she had been speaking of people in her past. She was still drunk – she was spouting off her emotions like a whimsical teenager again, the memories letting her fly back to the days of insecurity-

"My only guess is that you have unresolved emotional traumas. It only accounts for your behaviour. It's manifested into something disgusting," she spoke coldly. He was still smirking infuriatingly, at her, but his grip tightened again, and he drove her into the back of the counter, not so hard that she lost her breath, but it was a warning alright. She stared at her tormentor with a stern defiance in her expression. She was transparent to him this evening, as transparent as a wall of glass. She had been leaning towards him constantly, even though she was unaware. Her mouth had been opened partly, unable to close. He felt himself smirk.

"And still you provoke me! You are almost admirable. Gallantry in the face of fear!"  
"God, I'm so sick of your sense of entitlement," she snapped. Both of them paused to stare at each other. It seemed as if static electricity was surrounding them, the air charged with tension. His thumb then brushed lightly over her pulse, and he enquiringly tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. He knew she was afraid. She had to be thankful for his glasses; those pools of ice were something not to be held as pleasant.  
"I have dreams, Grace. A lot of them used to be about birds. Then they progressed onto other things. Then they progressed onto you. And some of these dreams are not very nice. Almost…frightening. Sometimes I wish I could analyse them further….but I cannot."

She gazed at him in bewilderment, not sure what he was getting at. He smiled this time, instead of smirking, breaking the thin line of his mouth, his cold mask crumbling. She suddenly had a crazy idea. He was just staring at her, loosening his grip on her wrists a little, almost waiting for her to retort something either sarcastic or angry again. He was looking at her with an insatiable hunger, but she wasn't sure what it was. She could partly figure him out for now – he wanted to get into all her deepest secrets. He had found out the obvious ones, mental and physical. That was all he was getting. She slipped her wrists out of his hands placed her own on his teal silken shirt softly. His body was taut and lean underneath her hands, and it stiffened when he felt her touch.

She lifted her eyes to his, challengingly.  
"Are you willingly telling me what you're afraid of? _Birds?_"He met her challenging gaze, the smirk had fallen from his face, and he stared at her impassively. She smirked at him, replacing his.  
"Oh how the mighty have fallen…" She had a horrible feeling, even as she stood there, feeling drunk and aroused, that these back-and-forth games they played, like a game of cat and mouse was slowly letting him slink into the crevices of her mind. He would pick it apart like dissecting something with tweezers. She could see it, his pupils blown out, his mouth half open in anticipation. There was a lingering hunger in his eyes that was impossible to reason with, it could only be obeyed. Words tumbled out of his mouth, as she stared at him, her body stock still.

Do I frighten you. She just stared at him, and his thin lips curled up into a terrible, garish smile. Do you need a moment to gather yourself, she found herself snapping, ruining his moment. He appeared famished. Was he ever the socially inadequate child, teenager, young adult? His clammy hand forced itself roughly into her straggly hair that had been unbrushed all day, and he forced her head back, forcing a slight gasp from her. She kept her hands on his shirt firmly, trying not to squeeze her eyes tight from the unwanted pain, but she gripped him tightly. His grip could have been tighter, and as she looked into his face, all that his eyes gave away was a frozen hunk of ice. His breath fell on her face and she willingly breathed in the smell; it reeked of stout, Guinness, to be precise. She rammed her mouth into his, her nose pressing against his cheek, which was beginning to show signs of stubble.

She was too drunk to realise this was the first mistake out of many she had already made, and she was too drunk to realise this was a man who had been terribly unkind and violent with her. But her intoxicated mind pushed aside those memories, she savoured the feel of his dry face on hers, and the way his teeth felt against her tongue; they became crooked towards the back of his jaw. He pulled away immediately, taking a large breath, some of her saliva pooling on his bottom lip. He pushed her away, so she bumped against the back of the counter. He didn't bother to moisten his lips after her attack, and he frowned at her, as if perplexed by her act.

It was bewildering.  
"Sorry, I'm pissed," she muttered. He lowered his head and gave her a look that could not be missed, or interpreted in any other way. She suddenly knew what he wanted, the same as her. It was an untold dirty secret that had been lingering in their minds for weeks, and now had burst into fruition. He turned around, and made to walk out of the kitchen. She saw his shirt clung to his back, soaked with a bit of sweat and she followed him like a robot.

The more conscious part of her mind screamed at her to stop, but she began to feel the roots of her intoxication return to her with spread wings and all. She followed him up the stairs and up the one step that led into his room. It felt like her undergraduate days again, her head whizzing, her throat parched and her loins disturbed and wanting. The night was young, and the room she was in smelt musty and distinctly male. If she had been sober (she would not be standing in this room, for one), she wouldn't be feeling very undergrad-like. She was in a room with a violent man who had an inflated ego that was large enough to dwarf an elephant.

He wasn't wasting any time; his movements had the analytical to it. She was too tipsy to notice the way his room had changed, there were beakers and test tubes at the end of his bed. He pressed his lips into her neck hard, caressing her skin, nipping it here and there. Her breathing had quickened, drawing her arms around his own, as he towered over her. It was a caress she'd never forget – it was unusual, it was possessive…It was obsessive. She was desperate to see his bare skin, what he hid underneath that handsome shirt of his. She began to undo his shirt, the material so soft on her fingers. He waited, watching her with an intense scrutiny. He moved his hands to her dress and pulled it to her hips and placed his bare, clammy hands on her back, making calculating circles on the skin with his fingertips.

He had no undershirt on. So far, his skin was unmarred, and there were fine hairs cascading down his chest to his abdomen. His face was unemotional. She immediately reached for his glasses, preferring the night to be without him looking like he usually did; distantly professional and haughty. His small pale eyes were revealed to her, and she briefly felt like she had glanced into the empty hollowness inside of him. He did not like her analysing for much longer and took the glasses off her firmly, placing them on his bedside table. The lamp burned an orange glow, almost homely if it wasn't his room.

She walked over to him, and peeled his shirt off, folding it and hanging it on the back of his chair. Turning her around, by the shoulder, she was caught off guard when he suddenly embraced her tightly and consumed her mouth. He had a very awkward way of doing it, as if he was inexperienced. For a brief few seconds she couldn't breathe. His kiss was less rough than last time, but it was just as unpleasant. She pulled away from him, inciting him to scowl at her.

He didn't speak, however. She just looked down at his trousers and began to undo his belt, as he slipped the green dress off her.  
"That's a new dress," he spoke robotically. Unlike her with his shirt, he let her dress drop to the floor like an unwanted piece of rubbish. They explored each other's bodies before he began to kiss her again, this time more softly, sensing he had overdone it last time. He hadn't a clue, really, about women. He was leaner than she remembered him being, and there was a cluster of freckles on his shoulder and a few moles scattered on his forearms. Apart from that he was squeaky clean.

Against his white body, the terrible marks on the side of his face and his burn scar stood out like a sore thumb. He pulled his own socks off, and his own trousers, and she heard it clank to the floor, as if he had been carrying something heavy in his pocket. Grace remained unnerved in her conscious mind – never had a drink promoted her before to being reckless such as this. They moved to the bed, and he gently peeled the rest of her clothes away, as she did with him. They didn't comment on each other's arousal, the damp knickers, the tight pants; they didn't even acknowledge it.  
He kneaded her only breast like you would with dough, and began to suckle the underside of her jaw, while she thrust her hands in his oily hair. It was odd to feel his warm body. His other hand drew lower, and one long pale dragged its way across her most tender spot, soon smearing his other fingers across her lower abdomen. Neither spoke. Neither looked at each other in the eye very much. He did not caress her hair. He did not stroke her in a tender way.

When the last few garments of clothing were lost, their bodies drew together as one. He filled her, as he lay on top of her, pulling her into him roughly by holding her buttocks. Her eyes closed slowly at the sensation, and her arms automatically wrapped around his neck. He dragged her upwards so they sat in a sitting position as he moved in her, from a slow start to a faster pace. Halfway through, he pinched her scar where her right breast used to be. She recoiled straight away, yelping in shock more than pain. She pulled away from him, her arms thrown up against her chest offensively.  
"That wasn't very nice," she spoke, her voice had wavered. She looked at him in pain. Her chest was a bright pink where he'd pinched it. He stared at her, relishing her now trembling naked body in front of him.

He crawled towards her, and pulled her back into him, cupping her cheek with one hand and breathed into her ear. "I'm sorry, Gracie – I got carried away." The use of Gracie provoked her more and she began to kiss him passionately, he reciprocated almost straight rammed his tongue into her mouth, choking her. It was famished and would not be denied, and his tongue brushed all along the backs of her teeth tantalisingly while he moved back into her, more forceful than the last. She wrapped her arms around his thin body firmly, closing her eyes. She pressed her lips against his cheek lightly, her fingers playing with the long ends of his dark hair. Both of them were spent within the next few minutes, and he pulled away from her quickly. She had sobered up a little, and it was bizarre to sit on his bed, completely unclothed. She saw a wet stain gather at the base of herself on the greyish sheets.

He was sat on the end of the bed, breathing hard, drinking some water out of a glass. She watched him carefully, hoping he would come back to cuddle her. She looked at the way his bones moved under his skin. She itched to touch him again – what for, she did not know. She had never once been attracted to him. Or had she? Grace had denied this for so long, but there was something vaguely endearing about him. His lucid movements, his intelligent, analytical stare, his light footsteps on the floor, those splatter of light, childish freckles on his dry skin.

There was plenty to dislike; his calloused rough hands, his bony, almost skeletal body, his small thin lips and cold expression that he wore like a mask. He sat there for a while, as if thinking deeply, and then slipped his pyjama trousers on, stealthily as if he did not want to show her. She drew her knees up to her chest, and sucked in a slow, long breath. It seemed he wanted her to go, and hollowness formed again in her heart.

She was like an empty tin can with a hardened heart rattling inside, microscopic to the eye. Some old wounds never really heal; a broken heart could be one. She should have guessed he would be done with the deed as soon as he pulled away. Childish tears filled her eyes, and although she was longing to touch him again in her drunken haze-filled state, she was too frightened to anger him.

Her heart bled at the slightest action. She had kicked Ben, Lisa's housemate out, but she never remembered any of the actions with him. She didn't know him. Yet it was personal with Crane. He was inching like a snake, into the cracks of her mind that she had so foolishly left open. She wiped her tears away with the back of her hand, seeing he had slouched down on the bed slightly, setting his watch. She rose off the bed, uncurling her legs from under her and walked to the door. Miraculously it was open and she let it close quietly, easing it behind her slowly, so the catch would not slam loudly.

She needed a shower; realisation was pouring into her head, gloopy like custard. Grace went to get the vodka from her room and padded back to the bathroom. She was still unclothed, and turned the light on in the bathroom; the light bathed her in an unnatural glow. She shut the door behind her and switched the electric shower on. It always took a few minutes to heat up, but she stood there, shivering in the cold. Steam began to rise, gradually. She felt sudden warmth between her legs, and something slide slowly down her right thigh. Stiffening at it, she clambered into the shower quickly and forced herself under the water.

The shower was still not working very well, it was positively ancient. The lukewarm water was satisfactory enough and she stood there, letting the water soak her. It spurted and stopped several times. Grace began to weep silently. She didn't notice the door of the bathroom open slowly. She leant against the wall sorrowfully, pressing the palms of her hands to her eyes, to stop the flow of tears.

_Stupid, useless tears. _The shower curtain moved open slowly, and she looked up to see him again, clothed in his pyjamas. The bottle was in her hand. Her heart dropped to the floor. Any other man would have left her to walk off, but she had to bear in mind that this was Crane, and it was probably no skin off his nose. He was looking to get a rise out of her, or to bully her about her weaknesses, despite being stark naked.

"What the hell are you starin' at?" she slurred at him in annoyance. He slipped off his clothes gracefully and stepped into the shower with her. She didn't take any notice and drank from the bottle once more. He took the bottle gently from her hands, placing it on the side. He gently put his hands on her hips, squeezing them a little.

"Why are you crying?" he asked. She looked into him with honest eyes; the drink certainly was talking now.

"I don't know why I let you fuck me. Why I fucked you. I don't find you attractive and you don't find me attractive." He was gazing at her, hard, as if trying to read her mind. She swallowed, but she wasn't nervous anymore. Her hand itched to touch the bottle again, just beside her fingers. He slowly pushed her into the wall behind her, pulling her into him with his hands on her lower back. "I think…the evidence makes that statement false," he spoke quietly in her ear. She watched him blink several times. Water droplets rolled down his marred face. She didn't believe him. Within a few minutes they were continuing what they had already done in his room.

The water ran down her face, as he pushed her under the shower. It ran in rivets down her face, into her eyes and ears, trickling into her mouth, as she heard him slightly groan. He had to half lift her up, and her back awkwardly pressed into the shower machine. The awkward position forced him to strike deeper, and there were stars in her eyes. His own sounds of his pleasure sparked off her own, and in that moment he seemed like an entirely different man. In that moment she didn't care and started to kiss him with bruising force, it was all her loathing pouring out. She thought she might have drawn blood at one point, just like he had, once. He responded in the same way, violently pressing his mouth over the scars of her neck and collarbone, beating her own. The unimpeachable self-discipline that he kept on the surface had cracked, like a split in the ground upon the impact of an earthquake. He was becoming too fervent with her now, as if taking out all his previous loathing, continually hitting a spot that made her eyes roll back in her head. The shower behind her pressed into the knobbed backbone that protected her spine. The pain soon became overwhelming, taking over the satisfaction.

_What would Lisa think? _Her guilt was tripping her up. Exhausted, she slunk back against him, her eyes drooping, but he wouldn't let go of her. He combed her wet hair with his hands, almost a little disdainfully. He poked and prodded each part of her body, as she slumped there; the alcohol had consumed her senses entirely. He pinched some of her skin in sensitive spots. He was being spiteful. He could murder her, if he had the chance, while they stood in their grimy shower. He wouldn't stop prodding her, one hand fingering her only breast, the other stroking her upper thigh. She snapped her eyes open at the caressing touch – one he had not elicited yet, and she drew a frown, taken aback by the affectionate gesture.

"Now I have your attention…" He spoke, in a significantly darker voice. His hands flew to her upper arms and squeezed, and he stared powerfully into her eyes. "What do you fear?"

She tried to push past him, but he violently pushed her out of the bath, so her head smacked straight into the floor of the bathroom. She felt the flood rush to her head and her eyes close as her vision fuzzed and her hearing lessened. Her eyes slowly closed. The last vision she had was of his curiously narrow feet, with varicose veins crawling up around his ankle.

* * *

It was very difficult to prise open her eyes, and when she did, a great throb ran through her head. Her eyes closed in pain immediately. She felt like a machine waking up slowly; she felt the throb in her head first, then her arms, her back and her legs. She was lying on her front, and the side of her heard ached a little from where she had slept on it. It took a few minutes to realise she was not on a soft mattress; in fact, she had no idea what her last memory was. All she remembered was feeling vaguely pissed off – no, very pissed off about Lisa dragging her Irish boyfriend along to the student pub.

It took a while for her eyes to adjust to the bright, unnatural, _ungodly _light. There was a heavy, sterile smell in the air that sharpened the nostrils. Her feet were ice old. Her cheekbone ached, as if someone had hit her. Her stomach dropped. It was impossible to fully raise her body, so she lifted her head a little, craning it around the room. It was a sterile hospital room – or a lab, she wasn't sure which was which. It was plain, unadorned, and uncannily clean. The floor and walls were white tiled.

On both sides of her were counters with cupboards above. Plain white with metal handles. One spotless sink. A box full of latex gloves. A yellow bin, with caution written on the top; a syringe bin. She realised she was on some sort of hospital trolley, with no material under her. A plain metal table with wheels on it. She tried to stay calm, thinking of the worst possible things as soon as she realised her right hand was attached to the leg of the trolley, with a cable tie. Her other hand, had an IV drip in it. Her skin was pink around the needle which sunk into the main vein in her hand; it appeared as if it was forcefully shoved in. Her right wrist was impossible to move, the cable tie was inescapable.

Her body was pounding; her throat was sore, nearly unachievable to swallow without grimacing. She was utterly weak, all over, barely able to move, as if the wind and spark had gone out of her. Grace noticed she was in a hospital gown. Carefully lying onto her side, she peeked down her gown; she had nothing on. Her heart was pounding ever so hard, that it felt as if it reverberated through the metal of the trolley. There was nothing special about the room, nothing welcoming either.

She began to panic, there was a high pitched wailing, worse than tinnitus in her ears, and she managed to scramble off the gurney with great difficulty. She couldn't get much further due to her restricted right hand, but without thinking she had forgotten the IV needle was in her other, and ripped it straight out. An unbearable pain shot straight through her upper hand. It was as if someone had snapped her veins out like pulling a bunch of tough weeds. She had ripped an eight centimetre line of skin through her hand. Blood splattered everywhere; she even managed to get some of it on her face and in her hair. She fell to the ground, her knees catching on the cold, hard floor, and she screwed her face momentarily in pain, but was careful not to emit any gasp of agony.

Blood freely poured down her hand, and dripped on the floor quickly. Luckily the trolley was not attached to anything; it sat in the middle of the room useless. She caught sight of a small metal table that was beside the trolley. There was a few syringes with liquid in them, lying there, ready for the next victim. There were extra cable ties, bunched together with elastic. There were capped bottles full of a transparent liquid. She didn't want to know any more, a stab of horror slowly went through her chest. She violently pulled the trolley over when she heard a muffled voice, and a pitter-patter of footsteps.

The metal of the trolley quivered along the white tiles of the floor. She opened the cupboards erratically, her breathing quickening. It felt like it was life or death. Eventually, when the footsteps drew nearer, she whipped out the first knife she saw and slipped it under the wire, having to drag the ends of it across her skin in order to saw it off. She didn't pay much attention to the physical pain she was feeling in her limbs, adrenaline saw to that. Grace turned to the door without much deliberation, and peeped through the wired glass window. A plain yellowish corridor with grimy tiles.

A glass covered light sat on the wall; dead flies were lying around inside. The light cast an uncanny glow in the corridor. She turned back around, to grab the knife she used to free herself, but a tall man had appeared in the room in all of a sudden. She jumped in fright; her heart rate had notched up several beats per minute. Her eyes lifted to the white, near-transparent door behind him. He was wearing a charcoal grey suit under a dirtied lab coat. Black shoes. White button-down shirt, burgundy tie. Fairly normal, except he was wearing a tattered, brown, sack on his head. It appeared as if it was made out of something potatoes were carried in, once upon a time. Nowadays they came in plastic bags and in plastic boxes in the supermarket.

There was something, stitched on the cloth, but her vision was blurring a little. Her head suddenly felt heavy, and she realised how much blood she was loosing; there was the evidence all over her gown and a pool of blood settled at her feet like a puddle. The man, the thing, spoke. "I see you've managed to free yourself, well done."

She recognised the low, drawling rasping voice that held a sarky tone. "Who are you? What am I doing here?" she found herself asking, although her hearing was going. The thing laughed, the voice was terribly familiar and began to speak to her once more. She backed away slightly, hoping he would not notice as the voice spoke. It was a deep, congested kind of sound. As he spoke, he picked up a needle from the tray. He pressed the plunger a little to get rid of any excess bubbles and liquid shot out the end, like water from a fountain.

He took small steps towards her. "Is this what you fear? What you have always feared, Grace? I must admit I was wrong – you are truly unique to have outsmarted me, no one, has ever done such a thing. Death, what an interesting concept. Silly concept that it is, very ancient and primal – Thanatophobia, is the correct term. There is nothing to fear except fear itself. Death…once it gets its claws into you, it doesn't ever leave does it? Poking about in your room really helped my research. You should get that into your head. Would you like to find out?"

She sensed he was smiling under that ghastly sack. She felt she was talking to some well-manicured scarecrow.

"I'll be able soon to add you to my list of petrified. A collection almost, something I've kept for several years. It would only truly grant complete control over you and your mind. Not such a dream far off, now." She figured she didn't really want to wait around, twiddling her thumbs; his words disturbed her to the core. She knew it was Crane without even thinking.

He was obsessed, with her or fear, perhaps it was both. He was a madman, in the sense of the derogatory term. Madman, in each and every hackneyed way she could think of. She was in hell. The white walls were hellish, the entire place down to the grimy tiles and the dead flies in the lamp. He moved before she could think any longer, and lunged at her with a needle. Her defence mechanisms somehow kicked into gear, like the cogs had began to work hastily, the cobwebs blown off. She shot out one arm and knocked his own off its turbo-charged course. She used her good hand, the right, and palmed his nose with as much force she could muster. It clicked in her hand, and he fell back with nothing but a furious grunt.

Grace turned back around to open the door to the lonely corridor. But the door was locked, the handle jammed against the latch that kept the horror within. There was now bloody hand and fingerprints all over what was a pristine, white door. A hand tugged back her hair harshly, almost pulling half her scalp off in the process, and the looming man behind her jammed a needle into her neck with brutal force. She felt warm drops of something drip onto her shoulder, and found it was his blood, before smacking back down to the floor, once more.


	13. Bolt From The Blue

**A/N;** Thank you big lots to those who have reviewed, it is very much appreciated. There have been a lot of views/visitors on this story, so thanks for taking the time to read it my weird and wondrous imagination!

* * *

She woke up. Her curtains were not drawn, so a brilliant white light filled the room, with a certain kind of airy beauty. Her window was open an inch, and she could hear the distant traffic, and distant voices of people. Her entire body was aching, and by the time she moved to gaze outside, each and every limb were stiff and near impossible to move. She noticed as her brain's cogs began to move, that she wasn't wearing anything, not even her pyjamas. Frowning, she got out of bed hurriedly, reaching to grab her dressing Gilmartin wasn't sure what to think after the day she had woken up, hardly remembering the night before. The only last memory she had, was of JK's, and being angered by Lisa because of Cormack. She felt betrayed, in some unusual way, but continual hollowness now sat in her chest. Lisa was her only friend in the world, and she had been abandoned, for a curly-haired blonde pretty-boy. She continued with her life, despite the constant unhappiness that lined her face.

The day after, her entire body ached, from head to foot, although it wasn't the usual kind of fatigue she experienced from a hangover; it seemed worse. She expected to be spending the next few hours throwing up into the toilet; instead, she was sat in front of her mirror at her dressing table for an hour, her mouth hanging open. Grace felt stiff, her jaw ached, and her wrists were sore. Her head began to bang in agony, and she had to lie down for another hour before it was physically possible to move.

She discovered her hand was loosely bandaged; and the dressing was so thin and poorly done that the blood had soaked through the couple of layers. She peeled it off in the bathroom, in the sink. She had managed at last, at one o' clock in the afternoon to lift herself out of bed. She ripped off the sticky bandage, squinting her eyes in pain.

She looked at the residue of the bandage; a large patch of blood that surrounded a yellow, gooey pus colouring. There was a rather large gash in the middle of her hand, from one end to the other. It immediately began bleeding again, a bubble of blood had burst upon impact, and it leaked all the way down her wrist. The wound was open, large and gaping, and the flakes of skin fell unfastened like an open entrance. The flakes of skin oozed a horrible garish yellow colour that began to tinge with scarlet as the wound bled quicker. She stared at it in plain astonishment.

She felt bile at the back of her throat, and ran it under the icy cold water. The agony brought her other hand to grip her side tightly.

What _on earth_ had happened?

Grace told herself she would ask Lisa in the session, which was to start in an hour. She dressed her wound more carefully this time, and cursed herself for becoming so stupidly drunk. She didn't bother much with her appearance, throwing leggings and an oversized t-shirt on. Seeing it was a little sunny outside, she grabbed her brown sunglasses and strolled out the door, not even thinking of her housemate, who lurked in the shadows, observing her like a hawk. There was a gentle, chilly breeze in the air, but the sky was a glorious blue behind the wispy clouds that drifted softly through. The little street full of usual drab-looking terraced houses were brightened by the glowing sunshine that caught on the glass windows.

Even the dark, puddle-filled pavements had an ethereal glow to them. The semester was drawing to a deadline, it was nearing the end of November, and her artist journal was due in soon, less than two weeks away. She had only half completed it, and a churn of anxiety flopped in her stomach – it was almost a good feeling compared to the usual she experienced when around Jonathan Crane's presence. Her mind had been on different things that day, on a whole. She had decided to quit her job at the archive.

Not only was she fed up with forever owning a cleaning job, but the eerie resonance of that night with Crane threatening her was one she didn't particularly want to deal with. It was perhaps cowardly, but the ad she saw on the careers board in the University made her think otherwise. There was a job in a fabric shop for an assistant in the centre of the town, that was Fridays and weekends only. It was perfect. She had set off to hand in her résumé before her session, in town, briefly enjoying the long breezy walk, her cheeks cool with the air, her hair windswept. She had her music blasting in her ears, and she walked with a jolly step. She almost felt refreshed about something, although she had no clue what about.

Her skin had been glowing with a certain kind of hue, her skin was pale, and there was a spark in her eyes; she hadn't seen that spark in years – way before her undergrad days. It didn't unnerve her as such, but she did wonder what kind of night she had last night. Usually hangover days were her favourite, the laziness, the fatigue, the excuse to eat junk food and watch television, but she didn't feel the peak of a hangover. In fact, she hadn't felt the sick pangs at the back of her throat, the heavy limbs, the feeling a skunk had let something off in her mouth. As she finally wandered onto campus, through the busy campus, since it was at the hour and students were let out of lectures. She entered the art studio to find it was empty.

The session was supposed to have started; she checked her watch, it should have begun five minutes ago. Except Lisa was on one of the back tables, a line enveloping in her brow as she dabbed away on her large painting of the hairy woman. Her long blonde hair fell over her face. She wore minty green lipstick, and her tongue kept dabbing at her lower lip in concentration. Grace walked over to her silently, hating to break her friend's absorption in her painting, as she plonked her holdall on the heavily paint-spotted wooden table. It was very silent in the studio, but the light was beautiful, casting a hazy shine over each item in the room.

Lisa unplugged an earphone and smiled somewhat at her. The tips of her fingers were ink-stained, and a small splodge of red was at the base of her hair. Grace pulled the clump out, and rolled it between thumb and forefinger, showing Lisa, who nodded knowingly.  
"Sorry I got mad," apologised Grace. Lisa shrugged, but there was a tight expression on her face. She started playing with the bristles on her brush, almost hesitantly. The rings on her fingers glittered in the light.  
"Nah, it's alright." Some older student plonked a large portfolio onto one of the tables in the opposite corner of the room, making a racket and unaware of it. Lisa distractedly gazed at the student who was dressed in an awful contrast of tweed jacket and baseball hat.

"What happened with you, that night?" Lisa asked, back to playing with her paintbrush. Her other hand softly touched the magazine she was painting from, a _Vogue, _pages splayed out, colours flashing on the glossy pages. Grace shuffled her feet awkwardly, then grabbed a stool, and sat on it. Her shining glow that she had felt earlier on seemed to have been snuffed, like a blown out candle. She had the sinking feeling that she might have ruined something with Lisa; that Lisa soon might drift away from her, on a boat on the ocean with Cormack as the anchor. She was the distressed seagull, still flapping around on the coast. Tears suddenly filled her eyes, but thankfully Lisa wasn't looking.

"Just got really drunk and stumbled home," she said, trying to sound funny, but it came out all wrong, as if she had spoken it frustrated. She was desperate for Lisa to crack a smile, or a joke, or even look at her. She felt like Lisa might have been rolling her eyes; but why would she do such a thing – they always did that. They always got drunk and did stupid things. To her great irritation, Lisa had gone back to mixing some of her paints on her palette, seemingly distracted again. Both of them hadn't spoken for a minute, and Grace felt like her presence was not wanted. Perhaps she had misinterpreted the question; perhaps Lisa expected a full explanation of why Grace had seemingly become so annoyed about Cormack. Then Grace realised with a frown Lisa had said _'that'_ night…

"Isn't the session supposed to be on now?" she asked gently. Lisa for the first time looked at Grace directly in the face. She was wearing wore makeup than usual, and Grace had a funny notion that she wasn't looking at the same girl she was used to.  
"What do you mean?"  
"Well, the one now? After lunch?"  
"Mate, that was yesterday. You didn't show up…remember?" Lisa said waspishly, raising her eyebrows. Grace felt like her stomach had dropped through. What on good God's earth? Lisa continued to stare at her, evidently perturbed. Grace sat there, trying to pick the pieces up, but was left utterly bewildered. It had been last night, she was sure of it. She remembered nothing else. Had she been asleep for more than twenty four hours? That was ridiculous, even impossible for her. Even if it was, she did not drink enough to sleep that amount of time – and if she did, a toilet break would be required halfway through. She sat there, in the silence, while Lisa twiddled with her paintbrush, trying desperately to think of that night.

But the last thing she remembered was sitting at the bar, with a pint in her hand, staring over at Lisa and Cormack, feeling saddened. There was nothing, almost as if a chunk of her brain was missing. Like someone had plunged a hand into the recesses of her memory and chucked a large batch into the rubbish. Lisa's voice spoke over the sudden, awful silence, and her eyes gazed at the bandage on Grace's hand.  
"Are you okay, Grace? Has something happened?" Grace sat there, unable to think, but she shrugged.  
"Leese, I have been out for twenty four hours. I don't remember anything since that night. I woke up this morning, confused, and aching, with an open wound on my hand." Lisa put down her brush, frowning at her with wide eyes.  
"Are you serious?" she asked. Grace met her eyes.  
"Positive," she replied. There was a disturbed feeling at the pit of her stomach. What had happened? Lisa quickly enveloped her friend into a tight hug, and Grace, overwhelmed, breathed in the fruity scent of her close friend. She pulled out a stray long blonde hair of Lisa's from her mouth when they pulled apart.

"You were really fucking drunk," stated Lisa, almost disapprovingly. Had that Irish prat rubbed off on her, thought Grace in annoyance. Grace didn't speak a word, moving her eyes across the large studio to gaze at the few students who were photoshopping various photographs on their laptops and studio computers. Lisa was still gazing at her firmly.  
"Have you checked your body for any more physical signs? Do you feel okay?" asked Lisa in worry. Grace smiled at her jokily.  
"Are you my mother? I'm okay."  
"Get to the doctor about that wound."

* * *

The fortnight had passed fairly quickly without any incidences. It was a strange two weeks, but Grace had managed to get a large amount of work done, and handed in her artist journal, pleased as punch with it. She had filled it to the maximum; the book could not even close. She had filled an A5 brown papered plain book with cuttings of paintings, little drawings, notes and typed up words. She had decorated every little corner she could, and made the front over extremely emphasised in bold colours. It was also a busy time, where many students had deadlines, so she had not seen much of Lisa. She had hardly seen much of Crane either. Even Dina did, who seemed to ignore her at point-blank, forever traipsing around in that ghastly yellow coat. True to Lisa's words, there had been physical evidence of that night.

Her body, thank Goodness, had been squeaky clean, except for a rather swollen lump at the side of her neck, which was marred by a rather dark bruise. Like something might have been jabbed into her neck. It was painful to touch, and the skin underneath it had hardened. The bruise thankfully was small, but upon closer inspection, she could tell it was not a love-bite. She was not such a saint that she could not identify one of those, she was far from it. She frowned in the mirror; had she fallen on something? It was a tiny little lump, almost unnoticeable, but it was there alright. It had taken a week to disappear, although the spot was painful for another week after that. She went to hospital after her GP confirmed she needed stitches and antibiotics for the wound on her hand. It had become infected; she was slow going to see the Doctor about it.

It was fairly difficult in those weeks, despite the large amount of work everyone had, to even see Lisa. Lisa was either out of town with Cormack, or she was in town with Cormack. The only time she seemed to be free of him was in the art studio – which Grace took great advantage of. Lisa's anger seemed to cool off completely within another day or two after their talk, and it was almost back to normality once more. Except the girls did not see much of each other anymore. Grace tried to ignore the intense feeling of hopelessness she felt at the pit of her heart, but it was a difficult emotion to ignore. Crane, although she hardly saw much of him, ignored her, at point-blank, just like Dina. He was becoming more dishevelled on appearances on campus over time; his hair forever greasy and lopsided, but his shirts were rumpled under his pressed suits and the shine on his black shoes didn't seem to blind the eye when the sun caught the tips of it.

He was never around at dinner time, and he was long gone before she woke up in the morning, which always varied from eight to half past eleven in the morning. Nine o' clock were her better days, but at times when it reached one in the afternoon; it had been the worst of days. She was curious as to what was wrong with him. Even if they passed each other in the hallway, and she attempted to nod at him, he would not even catch her eye; he would ignore her coldly. It was wonderful to have him off her back for once, but it didn't speak lightly of the situation either.

So one day, she decided to figure it out for herself, after handing in a large painting for her artist journal and feeling quite free of work. Her work was going well; now if she could get through the next painting, she'd fly free as a bird. It began when Grace was stood in the campus café, queuing for a chai latte, when she saw him walk out, not seeing her, towards the large building opposite the café. She didn't bother with her beverage, and followed him blithely. It was difficult to keep with his long strides, and he had a quirky habit of turning sharply around corners. She had to stop still behind several corridor turnings when he craned his head round abruptly, as if he was conscious of someone following him.

She was absolutely sure he hadn't seen her, his expression depicted he was quite preoccupied with something else. He took the lift to the fourth floor, and having seen him press the button for the fourth floor, shot up the stairs like a leopard. Her chest was tight and her limbs were throbbing by the time she got to the last floor, and nearly stopped dead in her tracks as she saw him stride out of the lift hastily, his eyes set ahead of him. He seemed to fix each and every person with a rather cold stare, one that chilled to the bone. He exited the foyer of the fourth floor and entered a long corridor.

She peeked through the glass doors into the corridor, and saw him enter through a door right at the end. The corridor was tiled, with boards on either side of the walls. It was a very dull, plain building, but no light or energy around it. She waited, patiently, memorising the office he had entered. He took a maximum of fifteen minutes. She gazed at her watch impatiently, beginning to think she was being irrational, but at last he flung open the door. It slammed swiftly shut behind him, and he strode down the corridor at a rather prompt pace. Her heart fluttered in panic. Her feet felt momentarily glued to the floor. Before he could see her, she twisted her body right around, and dashed up the next flight of stairs on her right.

Grace slowed down when she saw he took the lift, the screen flashing to 'GF'. Letting out a large breath of air, she walked straight down to his office, not thinking remotely about the implications. The air down the corridor was stale, and smelt faintly of takeaway pizza and day-old coffee. She caught the banners on the boards, various psychopharmacological lectures. Various science fairs. Biomedicine. Psychotherapy. All certain names that flashed meaningless things at her. She felt curious about this department; what department was it? She peered at the end of the corridor, and saw a large room, with glass walls. She saw a few people in lab coats, holding syringes, lab masks over their faces. A bright yellow biohazard receptacle sat in one corner. Metal tables with large pieces of equipment were sat slap-bang in the middle of the room, large overhanging lights blaring down. Toto, we are not in Kansas anymore. She had seen enough, seeing the sign on the board: Department of Pharmacology and Biosciences.

Grace tried the handle of his office, seeing his name slotted into the frame on the outside of the door. J. Crane, BSc, MSc …Soon Doctor of Clinical Psychology she thought.

The hairs were raised on her arms; she wasn't sure whether she found all these titles attractive, or uncanny, considering he was some sort of apathetic, cruel, disturbed….A various bunch of names came to her mind, and she silenced them as she stepped into his office. She closed the door behind her, and it shut behind her with a deadly click. The room was plain, unadorned, just like his bedroom. In front of her, a wooden desk that had seen better days, with three drawers. On top, a computer that looked like a model from the late 90's, considering the bulkiness of the monitor and the computer that sat underneath it. The walls were painted a cream colour that also had seen better days; it looked like previous professors had sat smoking, sucking the colours out of it.

The burgundy linoleum beneath her feet was threadbare, and there were several stains spotted at different corners of the room. His bookshelf, to her right, on the wall, was filled with many, many books. Most of them upon initial viewing appeared to be ancient poetry books; you'd expect to pick up Byron or Shelley. She pulled one out, dust speckled lightly on its top. A very old book on clinical psychology. It looked like his bookshelf at home, except this one felt a little more specific; she tried to remember what he studied….Psychopharmacology, the back of her mind reminded her. She poked about his papers that were scattered over the desk haphazardly, eyes flickering over the spidery illegible handwriting that littered the curling pages. She began to hum Lulu, as she rootled around a little more, finding nothing of interest; no beakers, no odd syringes, no water bottles full of strange liquids. Grace tried the first drawer, seeing a notepad, a few pens and a couple of highlighters. A stapler. An ink cartridge for a printer. Then, his Nokia mobile. Grinning to herself, she pulled it out in excitement.

_What has he been sending Dina…._

She was rather disappointed. Dina was not even a contact on his phone. He had hardly any contacts. Many of them were not mobiles, and looked like they were company numbers. A couple of mobile numbers, who only had initials. D. K. T. Nothing special, but something that was odd. He had no 'Andy', no 'Sarah'. No Mum, or Dad, or Home. It was ever so strange – she wondered if he even had family or friends. It struck her suddenly that he was a very lonely man. No wonder, she thought sarcastically. He had never particularly warmed to her, had never welcomed her with open arms. She left his text messages until last, her heart pumping away, the blood pounding in her ears. There was nothing else on the phone, and by the time she got to his messages, there was only one left; it seemed he made a habit of deleting them frequently.

This message from was an unknown number. She tapped it, and it popped onto the screen quickly. Port Talbot, South Wales, client due at 2200 hours. She saw a postcode had been given. She memorised the postcode, and moved the mouse of the computer. The computer was difficult to wake, and by the time she had tapped the postcode into the internet, it was at least a good ten minutes later. It was an industrial park on the outskirts of Port Talbot, in Wales, a place she had visited once or twice; her grandparents on her mother's side resided there. It was a grey, rainy town on the eastern rim of the southern Welsh coast. Its skyline was the steelworks, often overshadowed by large full clouds, ready to burst water.

She glanced at her watch; it was around two in the afternoon. It would take him around five hours or so to get to South Wales. It was extremely suspicious; she was very nearly tempted to follow him if it were not so ludicrous. A client? For all she knew it could be something to do with his course? It had stated, 2200 hours. Late at night – too late for an academic meeting. She heard footsteps, light footsteps that almost sounded calculated. Slow. Stealthy. Her heart leapt into her mouth, and she shoved a fist in her mouth, trying to stifle a panicked gasp. She shoved the phone back into his drawer, and it clanked nosily.

There was a filing cabinet behind her, and she shoved herself down in the corner, between the cabinet and the wall. Her buttocks caught on the floor on impact. The door swung open fast. Her heart pumped the blood around her body extremely fast; she could feel the pulse on her neck as she drew her arms and legs up to her chest. He was stood there; she knew it was him. He was still, and did not move for a minute or two; she could spot a faint shadow on the carpet. Suddenly he moved, and it took all it had for her not to flinch. Her fist was still in her mouth. He came into view. He was dressed the smartest she had seen him; brand new suit, she saw, and his shoes had been polished. He had even taken a comb to his hair, all smoothed back across the contour of his head. The radiator in the room was clanking, and the faint sound of birds singing could be heard outside. He stood in front of the desk, and sniffed loudly. Her eyes owlishly watched him, terrified. Her lips were clamped together tightly, her nostrils flared. He whipped open the drawer, so it clanked loudly, and stared down at the contents beneath him. Grace knew he could sense someone had been in the room.

He probably could smell her. He stared at the drawer for a long time, before gingerly picking up his mobile and pocketed it, without glancing at it. He pushed the drawer closed with a single index finger. His fingers lightly skimmed over his papers that she had undeniably touched. Her limbs began to ache from having squeezed herself so tightly between the cabinet and wall. A sense of alarm fell over, as he turned the computer off; she had left it on. He had sat himself at his desk, the leather of the swivel chair creaking underneath him. His oily hair caught the sunlight that suddenly lit the room. She saw dust particles dance in the glowing light. His head was in the way of the monitor, but she was sure he was checking the internet history; something she also stupidly forgot to attend to. Crane suddenly lifted himself up, having turned the computer off. A briefcase she had not noticed before was sat on the floor, and he picked it up, only to slam it back on the desk.

The slam caused her to flinch; thankfully she had not made a sound. He flipped the latches of the briefcase open. He was standing in the way, so she could not see what was in the briefcase, but he was shuffling his papers in there very quietly. Were there even papers in there? He slammed it back shut; eliciting another jump from her, and adjusted the thick grey watch he wore on his left wrist. Then, he exited the room swiftly, and locked the door behind him. Grace hadn't had time to ponder, before she felt the unmistakeable feeling of nausea over come her. Her stomach seemed to bubble beneath her, and she freed herself from the confines of her hiding place. Her gullet burned, and bile began to force its way upwards. The muscles in her throat seized, and her mouth became numb. In panic, she tried to force open his window, but it was tightly shut.

Grace glanced around his room quickly, putting a hand to her mouth. A rubbish bin, with nothing in it. She heaved into the bin straight away, unable to hold it for any longer. She was sick for a few minutes. Did I really panic that much, she pondered, breathing heavily, as she fell flat on the floor. Grace regained her strength eventually, pulling the plastic bag that held her vomit out of the bin. She left the musty office, and shut it behind her, thanking it could be locked inside and out. He would just have to find out someone was in his office.

She knew he wasn't the 'forgetting to lock your door' type. She discarded the plastic bag in one of the bins outside on campus, and tiredly made her way home. Nausea still settled itself in her stomach, and a great sense of fatigue overcame her. No longer thinking about Crane and the office incident, she fell straight asleep on the couch in the eerie living room.

* * *

It was the second time she had woken up, in the cold musty living room, her body lying down on the creaking plastic. It wasn't very pleasant, but at least it wasn't like the first time; she had woken up, with no recollection of the night before, with blood in her hair. The bout of nausea had not left her, and her throat was parched from being sick. Tiredly, she lifted herself up from the couch and walked up the stairs, hurrying her pace when she felt the bile rise, like an old remind arriving to greet her. It unnerved her, greatly. The thought came to her out of the blue; this was the second time she had woken up with no recollection of the night before, made to believe it was some drunken act of idiocy. The first time, it was after a postgraduate meeting, but she had woken up bruised, aching and confused. She believed last night was no 'getting drunk and fall home on the sofa' kind of drunk. She had woken up in her bed, she had been naked.

That was very unlike her. She always went to bed naked when she had been with Charlie, but that was years ago. She always wore her pyjamas to bed; it felt increasingly unusual if she didn't. Perhaps it was time to interrogate Crane, with force if she needed to. There was a nasty mysteriousness about him that lay underneath the rough, haughty surface. He just wanted her to believe that those nights that provoked her amnesia were her silly drunk tirades, but she knew they weren't. Her memory never was blank as this, and all the pieces in the puzzle did not fit together. Waking up naked. Waking up with bruises and blood in her hair. She was just glad she hadn't done something stupid like slept with another guy.

Grace often received, in her undergrad days, horrible feelings of shame and guilt whenever one-night-stands had happened, which was very out of the blue. People would gossip, make fun of her behind her back. She learned, after a while to ignore it; no one ever grew up, as far as she was concerned. She reckoned the same kind of gossip would go on in an office. Now she was being sick, and had no hangover. Either it was food poisoning, or it had been the alcohol. She felt a sudden surge of anger at Crane, for a reason she wasn't sure; it was a new reason, not the old reasons she had felt before.

A week later, and she had not seen much of Crane, he had hardly showed up for dinner time, and she did not hear him as usual in the mornings. It unnerved her. He could be extremely busy with his course, but somehow she doubted that very much, and she certainly wasn't going to give him the benefit of the doubt. Lisa and Cormack had gone away to London for a couple of days, just to potter around and have a good time. Grace was left alone, left alone to stew. She spent most of her time in the art studio, getting a lot of her work done, but she felt a wretched hollowness in her chest, that ached and ached. During that dull week, where the temperature had dropped dramatically, and she had to wear several layers under her raggedy coat. She even whipped out her woollen hat and woven scarf that her grandmother made for her when she was sixteen. The days no longer held bright sunshine backed by a cerulean sky or rainy days with clouds that burst every minute or so. It was complete cloud cover that brought greyness to everything around her outside. Only her colourful paintings were the brightest thing she could find in the current world.

She could add some of her knickers to that collection. She too the bus into town every time she had to go into work, idly watching the people around her, music playing softly in her ears. The bus driver wore a light blue shirt and navy tie, grumpily snatching her change from her hand. She snatched her ticket out of the machine begrudgingly every time, fixing him with a stern glare. The people who always seemed to travel were the young or the elderly, sometimes the odd middle-aged man or the odd woman with a crying toddler in a pushchair. Sometimes she would observe the people carefully, her mind elsewhere. A pregnant woman slumped her chair, stuffing cereal bar after cereal bar, her eyes wide, starved.

A man in a tailored suit stood beside her, desperately holding onto the painted rail of the bus. Another woman, dressed in a bright orange t-shirt and a many grocery bags by her feet, was frowning at an oven manual irritably. A woman dressed in head to toe in purple, was gazing at her delicate hands, the purple nail polish glinting on her fingers that tightly grasped her crocodile-skin handbag. It took her out of her life for a moment, and the fact that she felt horribly unfulfilled. In that week, when Crane seemed to be out of the house, thankfully, she had completed a lot of work. She threw out some of her old clothes, and replaced them. Holes in knickers were slightly unacceptable. And if she had these nights with no recollection of them, then if she was with a man, she didn't want to embarrass herself more so than already.

There was nothing worse than holed knickers. Grace had contemplated picking up the phone and speaking to her parents, but in the end she had decided against it. She had also thought about following Crane, but she decided against that too; exacerbating his hate for her was probably not a wise idea. So she made regular trips to the pharmaceutical-biological-science department, or whatever it was. She had to pass several labs with large metal machines in them and people clad in white lab coats before she managed to find his office. Her nose couldn't help but wrinkle every time she looked at his repulsive name on his repulsive door. She was horribly out of her comfort zone when she went into the building, knowing she was in a place she wasn't supposed to be in; people couldn't help but look at her curiously, as if she had 'Art student' written all over her face. Unfortunately, each time she went to campus that week, his door was locked, leaving her with an uneasy feeling.

It had been a close call the other day. She could pick the lock; her ex-boyfriend once told her how to, and she had become quite adept at it. Unfortunately, there was never an opportune moment, for his office was situated in a corridor that had people constantly passing through. During the evenings the floor was locked, only accessible to staff. Every other day, for the past fortnight, which had been immensely quiet, she had thrown up.

Most of the time, it had been before she trooped off to campus, so she avoided awkward situations. Most of the time, she made it to the toilet bowl. Other occasions, it had been in very awkward places. Thankfully, it hadn't been in any enclosed public spaces, such as the bus, but she had to be sick several times in the nearest toilet, usually close to the art studio. The vomiting had lasted for very long, but it made her throat burn and her knees weak with fatigue, until she was slumped against the toilet bowl, panting for breath. The first few days hadn't bothered her, especially when she made a discovery when she came across Crane's office door for the third time. Grace felt like she was slowly becoming obsessed; she reckoned he had been away in Wales for at least four days. There was a letter, the corner of it poking from just under the bottom of the door.

Checking around the corridor quickly, she pulled it out with the nail of her index finger, and stored it immediately into her holdall, walking away as hastily as she could. She later opened it up when sat in her room, eyes swivelling around the hallway of her house, checking for a lurking tall figure. Locked in her room, sat beside a plastic bucket which had made a permanent residence, she carefully opened Crane's letter. At first, it appeared on the outside, to be sent from a pharmaceutical company, with a large stamp beside the address. She unfolded several pieces of paper, a couple which to her were business-like and nonsensical. Then, in-between the formal pieces of typed words, she found another letter, handwritten.

Some of it was in shorthand, which she couldn't understand, but the main gist of it spoke pharmaceutical fraud to her. Yet there was something uncanny about the entire thing, as she re-read it. It couldn't be pharma-fraud, for it didn't appear Crane was supplying counterfeit drugs, or manufacturing drugs with the wrong active ingredient and selling them. She sat there, re-reading the letter which was worded so delicately, she couldn't manage to decipher it properly. Grace continuously returned to the letter, re-reading its words, deciphering it piece by piece. A large enveloped in her forehead.

_What on earth..._

Crane was dealing with shady characters, who acted as a pharmaceutical company, yet left suspicious notes; one she decided on. Crane was being supplied with various unknown, both natural and manufactured drugs. For all she could have known, it might have been research for his thesis, but she remained unconvinced. There was something nastily eerie about the entire thing. She sealed the letter back, but pressing it shut with an iron, and delivered it back to his office.

* * *

Her mind was off the incident, as her vomiting still continued. Her mind wandered as she took the bus back home after a shift in the fabric shop. Being an art student, she was knowledgeable about fabrics, sowing and knitting. She used to make her own clothes, once upon a time; she wondered where it had disappeared to now. Why did she buy all her own clothes? The other staff of the shop were very friendly; it was a breath of fresh air to experience genuine kindness. Two of them were young girls around her age; another couple was an elderly woman and a middle-aged woman.  
By the time it was Sunday evening, and she returned home from work, her mind ticked nervously. It was still extremely quiet in the dark, chilled house. She frowned, noticing the door of the living room was shut tight. She pressed her hand on the cold handle of the door, seeing it was locked. Fear in her heart, she walked down to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. But the nausea worked its way back up her gullet far too quickly. She was violently sick all over the sink. Her hands shook, and her vision fuzzed over. She immediately put her head between her knees on the floor of the kitchen.

_What on earth is wrong with me…_

Grace, making a batch of strong Yorkshire tea, tried to recount her memories of that very blurry night. She was at the student bar, with another pint in her hand. She had spotted Dina and Crane sat together like two love birds…She kept her beady eye on Lisa and her stupid boyfriend…the place was jam-packed with students, mostly of the male clan…the place was sweaty, smoky and full of testosterone. No matter how hard she tried to jolt her memory, nothing came to her. Out of the blue, something terrible came to her mind. Grace glanced at the noisy ticking clock on the wall. It was half past nine at night, on a Sunday. She scrambled for her phone once she was upstairs in her bedroom. She made sure to lock her door tight behind her. It took four missed calls before Lisa actually picked up the phone.

"It's a Sunday eve, Gracie, school in the morning…."  
"What happened that night, Lisa? Who did I go home with?" Grace demanded of her friend. There was a pregnant pause at the end of the telephone line. There was a muffled noise, which sounded like the voice of a male, then Lisa cleared her throat.  
"I'm coming over." Lisa arrived shortly, in the space of ten minutes, reading glasses on the top of her head, and a fag hanging out of her mouth. Her eyes flew over the top of Grace's head.  
"Is Mr. Ichabod home?"  
"Nope, unless he's at it up in his room and being politely quiet at it," answered Grace, with a smirk. Lisa traipsed through the door, after chucking her half-smoked cigarette into the road. She wore large headphones around her neck that still blared heavy-metal sounding music, and was dressed in an oversized hoodie, splotched with paint.  
"I bet he never jerks off," Lisa commented, swivelling her eyes around the hallway, taking out a lollipop, unravelling the wrapper. Grace ignored the comment, not interested in childishly slagging Crane off at this point in time. Lisa followed her, pulling out a bottle of cider in the meantime, and the girls passed it between them as they sat on Grace's bed. Grace recounted the story of her vomiting during the week, telling her she thought it might have been food poisoning, then several other things, ticking them off her fingers. Lisa's eyes considerably widened as Grace talked to her, almost feverishly. The lollipop nearly fell from her mouth, and she took it out hastily.

"Do you not remember that night, whatsoever?" she asked, frowning at Grace in seriousness. Grace nodded at her, biting her lip.  
"Do you remember seeing me?" she enquired. Now it was time for Lisa to swivel her eyes in thought and chew her lip. She popped her sweet back in her mouth, sucking on it thoughtfully.  
"Well…you were being sulky in the corner for a while…" Grace rolled her eyes, as Lisa frowned in thought, but Lisa could not remember either. "We left way before you did." Grace realised the implication of her sickness, and a wild, frantic look seeped into her expression. Her mind was ticking over frantically. It was nearly two weeks ago since the mysterious night had happened, she had been so wrapped up in her job, in her work, in Crane that….  
"You missed your period?" questioned Lisa. There was utter seriousness in her face, and the lollipop was out of her mouth. Grace stared at her, her mouth open.

"I don't remember…"  
"You don't remember?"  
"Well, yeah…no. I came off ages ago; it's been a month I think. Well, it doesn't feel like it. I haven't even kept track of it, it's not like I'm on the pill or anything. Christ I don't know!" Lisa just stared at her, aghast. The lollipop was dropped onto the sheets between them.  
"Seriously, are you one of those women who doesn't realise she's pregnant until she sits on the loo and suddenly a baby pops out?" Lisa spoke. Grace looked at her for a while, trying not to smile.  
"Not helping…" she sighed, running a hand through her hair. How stupid she was.

They rushed to the nearest Tesco's, taking a taxi, and virtually running to the health section of the supermarket. All the other students of the night took taxis towards the nightclubs, yet these girls flung themselves out of the vehicle towards the bright supermarket, virtually lobbing the money at the driver. Lisa had one large basket, and fished out all the pregnancy tests she could find. In one sweeping motion, her hand moved through the various brands and they fell into the basket. A few people stared at them, as they dallied about. Grace fetched a large bottle of cider and some cigarettes. Lisa was at the self-service checkout when Grace arrived with the bottle and packets in her hands.

"Put it back Grace!" The cigarettes had already been paid for, and Lisa snatched them straight off her, and shoved them in her hoodie. Grace rolled her eyes, not wanting to believe it. But the truth was becoming harder to bear, especially when they arrived home. She had never seen a pregnancy test in her life. She held it in her hands, after drinking a load of apple juice. Both of them made sure to scan the house before they entered with the large bags. The house was cold and eerily silent as usual. Lisa strolled in without taking any notice, and she was less careful about scanning the place for sign of Crane. She flicked on a number of lights, and as they went up the stairs like a pair of trooper, Grace felt almost as if Lisa was disturbing the peace of the house; that she was breaking the normal routine that she had become so used to, that a huge taboo had been made.

She realised just how much, in that moment, Crane had an effect on her, he intimidated, just as he wanted to. Making her fear was his way of controlling; perhaps he had been very helpless when he was younger. She thought back to him hitting her, the discolouration of the skin around her eye. She shook the horrific thought of her head. It never struck her until now how terrible the situation was. A housemate who had hit her…who had forced her to undress in front of him, and subsequently snogged her, until her lips were chapped and sore in the morning. Lisa was totally oblivious, making a little nest on Lisa's bed. Grace smiled at all the food that poured out of the plastic Tesco bag. Lisa raised her eyes to her. It seemed her previous annoyance with Grace had vanished into thin air.

"Well, if it's positive, we will need comfort." Grace plonked herself on the bed, ruffling the sheets and the plastic casing that enshrouded the food. It was an odd selection, but was a favourite of Grace's, Lisa knew her well. Heinz Tomato soup, freshly pressed cloudy apple juice, Walkers 'Quavers' crisps, a box of grapes, a large pot of strawberry yoghurt, shortbread with chocolate chunks and last but not least a small pot of olives and feta cheese. Grace's mouth watered. Lisa drew up a small smile.  
"Amen." She began to drink water and apple juice, chugging it down as if she had just run a marathon. She felt, throughout her long drawn out years of disappointment, tough relationships, her parents, and her heroin addiction was nothing compared to what she felt when she sat on the toilet, peeing away. They had bought a ton of pregnancy tests, from brands to supermarket own, from very expensive to fairly cheap. Her heart had thundered, as she sat on the toilet, waiting impatiently for her bladder to empty itself.

The ten tests, which had taken an hour to do, seeing she had to drink then pee for every test, was positive. She took about an hour in the bathroom, too afraid to walk into her bedroom and break the terrible news to her friend. Lisa was next door, playing music loudly from Grace's netbook. She gathered up the tests in her arms, and walked into her bedroom. Lisa was slumped against the wall, on the bed, munching on some crisps. Grace dumped the plastic tests on the bed, and Lisa idly rifled through them, chucking one after the other.

Grace sat on the bed, her body numb. How stupid. How utterly stupid she was. It could have happened in her undergraduate days. But it had to happen now. Who on earth was the father? She had no unusual numbers on her mobile. Her old mobile had been found by her a couple of weeks ago. Lisa went through each one, chucking them on the floor when she was finished scanning them.

Grace was staring into space, not taking any notice of Lisa. Her mind was blank. She heard voices downstairs. The girls kept the silence, and gazed at each other, both in thought. One was a low voice that seemed to reverberate through the floorboards, the other a high-pitched twang. Dina. Lisa cleared her throat.  
"See the GP. Get an abortion." Her gaze wasn't very friendly. In fact, there was a line across her forehead. Grace stared at her.

"I'll see the GP on campus, tomorrow morning." Lisa looked away pointedly. There was a nasty sour taste at the back of Grace's throat, which she had difficulty in swallowing."Are you judging me?" Lisa snapped her head towards Grace, her face shocked, paling at her cheekbones. Grace, for the first time, felt completely isolated from everyone.  
She stared at Lisa as if she was staring at a complete stranger. Lisa lunged forward and embraced Grace in a bear hug. She squeezed her until Grace's shoulders ached.  
"Don't be daft. I would never judge you. I'm shocked for you," Lisa muttered. Lisa stayed for a while longer, but she left after a while, saying she would go with Grace to the surgery on campus tomorrow morning. She left without a backward glance, and as Grace watched her walk down the street, she took out her phone and called Cormack. Grace knew Cormack perhaps had taken her place now, and she had the horrible, uneasy feeling that Lisa was going to gossip away to both Cormack and her housemates that her friend was pregnant. Grace lit up a cigarette by the front door and blew the smoke out slowly, watching the quiet road, the sun setting colouring the sky. She was pregnant. The words set into her like slow tar seeping through. Every limb that belonged to her body slowly began to turn numb, with a raw, aching feeling. The place outside, was as normal as ever. The poky little terraced houses opposite, a corner shop on the edge of the road.

A man walking his dog, a knitted cap on his head. A couple of young male students, rucksacks on their shoulders, muttering quietly as they walked, looking down at the pavement beneath them. The clouds were grey as usual, and full of rain, but it would not drop its load. She stubbed the cigarette out on the revealing brick of the wall of the house and chucked it into the street. It rolled down to a gutter, and disappeared. The woman opposite in the corner shop had been watching her the whole time, like a hawk. Grace slammed the door, pausing. She felt mentally sick, it was a relief it was not physically, but it felt much, much worse. She heard the twanging of Dina's high-pitched voice which bounced off the walls.

Positive. How could it be positive, she screamed and yelled in her mind. Lisa had left. She thought the girl would have stayed for the night. She knew somehow, although Lisa was as liberal and open-minded a person could be that she disapproved. In some obscure way of hers. She took a deep breath, dying for a cuppa. As soon as she entered the kitchen, the smell of coffee was strong in the air and the light that gaped through a hole in the clouds outside was almost iridescent. Dina was stood next to Crane as soon as Grace entered the room, with a heavy heart. It was half minute afterwards, when Grace pushed past to refill the kettle that Dina stood on her tiptoes to peck Crane on the cheek.

She froze immediately, feeling incredibly disgusted at the girl. She felt Crane's steady gaze on her, as if piercing through her. Ignoring him and Dina, she plonked the kettle back on its electric charger. The two Americans were silent, as Grace wasn't sure what to do; she felt she was losing horribly in her battle with Crane. So she leant against the counter, with her arms crossed. She wasn't sure where to look, so she gazed at the ground, pretending to appear lost in her own thoughts. Crane's gaze was so piercing that she couldn't let it go, she had to give a glance at him. She almost thought that hard, angular face with the concentrated stare smirked at her for a second. Dina just looked at her with a blank face.

Crane did something that shocked both women.

He leaned down and softly, passionately kissed Dina on her lips, putting a hand on her hip. He paused, and then drew away almost seductively. Seductive as he could get. The look he sent Grace was pure spiteful. There was malice in those taut lips, but there was a lost light in his eyes. Like a flame had gone out, something had failed somewhere. There was a terrible mad look in his eyes, a look that was determined to hurt her, make her fear. Yet, her skin heated. Dina blushed like a young schoolgirl, giggling a little, not looking at Grace. There was queer sort of feeling that lurked within Grace's stomach. Crane still had a hand on her forearm, but it was strained.

Dina finally sent her a knowing look, a look full of pride. Grace made her tea as quickly as she could. Crane did not move as she squeezed past him to make her tea. She swore he brushed her shoulder, and if he did, it was on purpose. She felt herself feeling sick. Dina was chatting away, talking about rubbish, yet it seemed simultaneously as if she was out of the room. Grace walked away as quickly as she could. She felt like playing Cat Power or Meredith Brooks loudly in her room. She needed strength like no other.

Yet as she stood in her room with a steaming cup of tea, the truth hit her all over again; the weight was like a ton of bricks falling upon her. Her chest felt tight, the room felt incredibly small. She fell flat on her bed, on top of the food that Lisa so kindly bought her. At least Lisa helped her. She was judgemental, but she had helped her. Grace closed her eyes, and surprisingly enough, sleep overcame her quickly.

* * *

The next morning did not greet her well. She was up within a second; reaching for the plastic bucket she had placed there a day before. Her day was already grey before it had even started. There was an incredible numb feeling in her that was impossible to rid herself of. As if a constant anxiety was sat at the back of her mind, telling that something terrible was going to happen. She slumped back down on the bed for a moment. She heard bird song outside, firstly a robin, then a collared dove, a most familiar sound which reminded her of her childhood. She missed her old favourite, the mellow call of the blackbird. Her room felt small again, and she fumbled for her way towards the bathroom, running a bath.

The bathroom was grimy; it hadn't been cleaned in weeks. There was dirt that clogged up the gap in-between the tiles; she supposed once upon a time it had been white. There were tiny hairs spotted slightly around the sink. He'd shaved this morning. She glanced at his razor and shuddered. She unplugged a clog of hair out from the plug hole. She was ashen-faced as she glanced in the now cracked mirror. There was a straight line, down the middle of the mirror. Just beneath the mirror on the glass shelf above the sink, she saw his bottle of shampoo, wondering if the worm ever used it. His face cloth was sat, curled up in the crevice of the yellow-painted sink. Grace caught her eyes in the mirror for a moment. She then swivelled them back to the face cloth, and picked it up. It was warm, freshly used. Body odour, shaving cream and aftershave. She placed it back in its exact place, and stepped into her bath.

The ever-dismal reminder that she was carrying a developing foetus in her womb was numbing every portion of her mind. She felt like any moment, she could become loose from her normally sane state of being. She would have to get rid of it. It would have to go. She had no idea who the father was, and shame coloured her cheeks as she washed her body. What a whore. What a slut. Heroin junkie slut. You deserve to be punished, whore. Her mind would not leave her alone this morning.

The bath soothed her, although she was sick twice into the bucket beside the tub. She came out, still ashen faced, and began her last night's washing up in the kitchen. The house smelt very strange this morning, a sharp disinfectant kind of smell. To her dismay, he was there, making his coffee. He was dressed, the sports coat and flannels as usual, although he lacked a tie. He just greeted her with his impassive gape, but she ignored him. He was the last thing on her mind right now. She filled the sink up with water once she re-set the boiler. It took her five minutes to re-set it, and her impatience was beginning to settle in. Grace pictured the phone book in the hallway of the house. There wouldn't be any numbers in there, she thought. It would have to be an online search. She couldn't believe it was even happening.

How disappointed was she, was her best friend here. Her mother, how horrified she would be a good reason for her never to contact her daughter again. Grace sunk her hands in the warm bubbly water and slowly washed her plates up, her mind ticking away. Jonathan Crane, meanwhile, took his time making his breakfast, sensing she was preoccupied. Her hair was wet at the ends, and her cheeks had a pink tinge to them, but there were great large bags under her eyes. She appeared as if she hadn't slept for a week. He watched her arms work away under the bubbly water; she had put far too much washing up liquid in there.

He was sick and tired of having to buy the stuff each week. He couldn't care, and wished such mundane trivial tasks could be her responsibility. Her body was wrapped tightly in her dressing gown. His eyes drifted to her chest. Clearly she did not care what he thought. He could clearly see only one breast, jutting out through the material. Her forehead was creased in thought, her eyes blinked fast. Something was the matter. She clattered about far too much. She wasn't even giving him the cold shoulder, as she normally would. As he would have expected. He fiddled with his coffee for a bit, and leisurely ate his toast. He never had anything on it apart from vegetable spread. The stuff rolled about in his mouth, beautifully, dry stuff. He watched her the whole time, eyes unblinking. It was seventeen minutes when he finally decided to speak, tiring of the silence.

"How are you this morning, Grace?" she jumped a little, not expecting him to say anything. He smiled a little. She was up rather early; usually the girl was in bed until late morning. How lazy was she, one of her most dislikeable attributes. She didn't glance at him, but started to become a little quicker in her washing up. He could tell she was cursing herself for leaving so many unwashed things; it had piled up for the last two days. He trailed her eyes up the nape of her neck, which was bare. Her hair was plaited and then coiled into a bun, high on her head. She'd had a bath. She muttered barely anything, clearly not interested in talking to him. He proceeded, like a creeping predator. He asked her about her evening, knowing he'd get a reaction.

"Yeah, nice, cheers. You had a good session with Dina?" He stopped, caught off guard for a mere second. She did not turn to look at him, but her movements were irritable. Sharp, hasty. Made a great deal of noise. She took notice of his unwashed things, which were only a plate and a mug. He drew his brow at her. There was a clear, undeniable tone of resentment in her voice.  
"Are you jealous? That's interesting," he replied. She scoffed at him, scrubbing away at a pan. He smiled at her. Her memory was wiped, she knew nothing. Nothing of the two things that had happened that night. He had infiltrated her, for the first time. There was still work to be done. He smiled cunningly at her, and put his hand on her arm. She jerked, but did not push him off. She glared at his scaly hand, creeping up to her shoulder, slowly. She saw, briefly, knowing he would not notice that his hands were dryer than usual. They had eczema symptoms, cracked red skin, and terribly wrinkled. She fully well knew he did not suffer from eczema. He'd been handling chemicals. Consistently. Almost every day, every other hour or so. Every evening or morning. He'd not taken enough precautions, and now his hands were marred forever. The tips of his fingers, nails nearly bitten away, touch her pale, soft neck.

"How could I possibly be jealous, Jonathan? You're the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to be jealous about! From the moment I met you, your haughtiness formed the basis of my final decision!" she spoke wryly, with a chuckle of false laughter. She clattered the pan down on the drying rack. She was finally telling him he was a selfish, disdainful, overblown man who clearly was compensating for something, and was pleased at her roundabout way of speaking it. He smiled at her.

"Is this your reply? I'm sure that these feelings will help you overcome your previous hindered view of me." She twisted away from him, disgusted with his words. She couldn't ever imagine being jealous of him getting off with Dina.  
"I might as well enquire why with so evident a design of insulting me, you are choosing to tell me now that I have 'feelings' for you, against my better judgement?" she spoke waspishly. He laughed at her. She hated how his little straight teeth mocked her, flashing their normally hidden selves. He took hold of her upper arms and pressed his lips on her neck. He was soft, so soft, as his bottom lip moved seductively over her skin, goosebumps erupted. She supposed he would want to press that tight insipid mouth of his into her and make a mark. How he'd like to push his lips right into the back of her head. She aggressively pushed him off. He wasn't particularly strong, but he was far stronger than she was. He let go, still smirking at her.  
"What the hell Jonathan! Back off!" He appeared positively excited, and as soon as his hand brushed hers, he gripped it forcefully.

"You honestly don't remember, do you, Gilmartin?" His expression was clown-like, large grin, small, pale eyes wide. It was awful and she felt her chest go, that sudden tight feeling came back to staunch her breathing. He had her hand in a vice-like grip. She looked at him, bewildered, afraid a little.  
"That night…the last one. Where you became extremely…intoxicated," he answered for her, staring at her intensely through his lenses. He spoke intoxicated in a whisper of exhilaration. She could hear birds chirping outside, and the hum of the fridge. Whur, whur, whur. The distant rumble of traffic. A horrid sense of fear settled in her chest, just like a cat curling up in a corner contentedly.

"What about it?" She tried to muster her courage into her voice, and speak steadily, but it was very difficult. The last word had trembled on her tongue. He was standing very close to her, so much she could feel the heat radiating off his body. He rubbed his index finger, almost affectionately up the outside of her hand. She glanced down, frowning. She saw the bones of his crusty hands, white and sticking out. He took a sudden hold on her chin and jerked her head up to meet his gaze. His breath was on her face. She felt revolted, his hips were very nearly pressing into hers. His touching of her wasn't very pleasant; his dry hands felt like sandpaper on her skin. She tried to shake her head out of his hands, but he wasn't letting go.

Pure shock ran through her. Grace's astonishment was beyond expression. Suddenly she knew what had happened, even though no memories came to bob on the surface. She struggled against him desperately, horrified. He was lapping up her fear and horror like a hungry dog. He kept pulling her into him. He looked like he had championed her at long last, and his lips were a mere fraction from her own, his arid hand on her chin-  
"Let me go!" She shouted furiously into his mouth.  
"What? Have I got under your skin at last? I often create feelings in others that they don't understand themselves," he mocked her. He was so pleased with himself. Her nose wrinkled at his impertinence. How dreadful, how shattering. This was the worst mistake she had made in a while. The other large mistake was her addiction. This probably topped as the second biggest mistake. Her mouth became dry, and her cheeks flushed with shame. She was ever so aware of his being close to her, breathing on her face, fingers clutching her jaw, hips dangerously close…Grace was utterly sickened.

"You took advantage of me when I was drunk!" she snapped at him. He wasn't doing well to lose that ghastly smirk of his, which did not suit his face at all. The light of the grey day outside caught on his lenses and for a few moments she could not see his eyes.  
"You had been sobering up for the past hour. You were fine. You clearly wanted it then." She felt like screaming the truth at him, but being in such close, dangerous territory, she thought it was unwise. So she refrained a little.  
"If I was so sober, then why on earth can't I remember anything, Jonathan? You think it's perfectly acceptable for you to treat me like I'm sort of disposable 'at-your-service' object?" He almost looked a bit offended at her, the expression of his evident, _you wanted it…_She probably did. Her feelings of resentment towards Dina last night to her felt quite unexplainable, but perhaps it was not so complicated after all.

She also had been drunk. Every time intoxication consumed her body, her libido was notched up a few levels. His face lost the smirk, and the excitement, and he let her go. He just stared at her, dumbfounded. Grace suddenly felt sick. The bile came up through her gullet far too quickly, and she did not have time to run to the bathroom. She violently vomited into the sink, her body convulsing. She breathed hard, desperately trying to catch her breath. Pieces of her vomit bobbed on the surface of the now soiled water, previously used for washing plates. Strands of hair was caught up in her mouth, as she breathed heavily, looking at her sick in the water. Yet it did not matter now what he thought. He'd managed to take the last ounce of dignity she had in her very bones.

She hoped he thought it might have been from shock, as he stood there, staring and staring. She emptied the sink of its water and reached into the cupboard to spray some bleach. He didn't bother waiting, and swiftly exited the kitchen, blowing a breeze. She caught his scent, a damp mouldy smell. As if he did not allow his clothes to dry properly after washing them. Grace felt herself shaking. She had to call Lisa.

She was surprised it even happened, hoping it was some kind of dream. But she wasn't a child anymore. After a while, she began to think he was sexless. His lean lanky body, sharp cheekbones, and misshapen suit with oily hair, gave off the 'nice, young man' look. Yet the burning fire in his eyes, cold, calculating eyes that contrasted with the deep shadow of his brow, told her otherwise. He hadn't been with very many women. Or at least not with a woman like her. He probably had a girl once, which had never amounted to much. Perhaps it ended bitterly. She went up to her room and closed it tightly. Grace picked up her mobile phone and texted Lisa hastily.

_Meet on campus. Now._

Lisa replied with a simple answer, and Grace was out of the house as soon as possible.

* * *

The rain beat down hard on her, as she walked towards campus. She couldn't get him out of her head. She tried to remember within every particle of her, that night, but it was blank as a sheet of paper. Mysterious as a dark, misty night. The houses around her were as grey as the day, and not many people were about on the streets. She pulled her hood tightly over her head, feeling her stomach grumble. As she reached the back entrance of the University, she glanced at all the other students walking past her.

Two girls, chatting away, umbrellas above them. A group of elder students, deep in conversation. A couple, arm in arm. How she wished to be in their place for now, for they appeared so calm, without a single worry about them. Lisa was going to be waiting for her in the café on campus. It was heaving with people, when Grace pushed open the glass door, but she spotted Lisa immediately. Her heart fell a little. Cormack was beside her, the two were in good spirits. Lisa had bought her a tea. Grace forcefully pushed past a few people, seeing her lecturer Heather Lugh in the background, deep in conversation with another professor.

Grace sat down, and breathed in calmly through her nostrils. She was very sure Lisa was not going to like this, but the girl was the most supportive of friends she had ever had in her life so far.  
"Sorry Cormack, by the look on her face, it's going to be private," Lisa spoke to her boyfriend. He smiled at Lisa, and kissed her lightly on top of her blonde head.  
"I'm off to the library anyway; I've got a thousand more words to write for this essay." He left quickly, pushing past the people like Grace did. Grace smiled sheepishly at Lisa.  
"So? You thought anymore on…" Lisa widened her eyes and signalled at Grace's belly. Grace clenched her hands together, before taking a sip of tea.

"I'm probably going to get an abortion," she said shakily. Lisa nodded, taking her own drink and sipping it. There was something vaguely odd about her today, thought Grace. Her brow was wrinkled, and her hair sat lank on top of her head. It was such a rare occurrence for Lisa to slip in her appearance that Grace felt worry settle in her.  
"That's not the point today, Leese. I found out who the father is." Lisa's eyes widened, sensing the café was probably not the best place to chat, but since it was so busy and loud, no one took any notice of them. Lisa nodded, urging her friend on, unable to say anything.

"Don't get mad," Grace spoke in a small voice, hating herself. She looked straight at Lisa, who raised her eyebrows. There was a little line next to one of Lisa's eyes; she was tense.  
"I slept with Crane." At first Lisa did not react. Then, as if the cogs began turning, her mouth fell open, and her eyes took on an expression of a fish; wide and glassy. Grace spoke nothing, looking carefully at Lisa, her heart pounding. Lisa closed her mouth and pulled an expression of horror.

"You have got to be _fucking _kidding me," was the first thing that came out of her mouth.

It was spoken so viciously, that several people around them heard it and turned around to see the source. Lisa appeared, in a space of a few seconds, horrified and disgusted. Grace's face could not help but colour; she loathed herself in that moment. Lisa looked away pointedly for a moment, interlinking her fingers, her mind deep in thought. Then she swivelled her head to look at Grace. Her mouth was taut, her eyes were, for the first time Grace saw, completely cold. She then picked up her hippy multi-coloured bag and stormed out of the café. Grace was in shock, but she took after her friend, leaving her cup of tea behind. People stared at them. Lisa was making her hasty way, down the main walkway of the campus, towards the art studio. Grace called after her, helplessly.

"You think I would willingly do it, Leese? Oh please stop!" she cried out at Lisa's denim-clad back. Lisa stopped and whipped her head round viciously.  
"It's not about you being bloody willing! Jeese, I'm absolutely _tampin!_' Grace just frowned at her in bewilderment.  
"You're acting as if I just shot you in the back!" she snapped at Lisa. She was shocked beyond capability at Lisa's behaviour. She knew Lisa would give her a clip round the ear – but then again it had been out of control. She had no idea, until now, that it happened. Lisa was positively revolted at the idea. Other students who were passing looked at them curiously.

"No, more likely, you've shot yourself in your own foot! What happened to feminism?! The guy continually asserts himself to be above you! He literally was at one point!" Lisa yelled at her. Grace had never seen her friend appear angrier, even at protests she seemed relatively normal and composed. Her eyes were wide, and she appeared hurt, almost. A blush of shame tinted Grace's cheeks, but she remained obstinate, as Lisa continued.  
"The fact that you allowed yourself to stoop so low – and let him win! Don't come to crying when he's not going to accept that you're carrying his child, Grace," she spoke, her anger accentuating her sing-song Welsh accent. "I thought, you were so much better than that."  
"Oh don't start all that! Ever since you found out I was with child, you've been acting all funny about it! You tell me not to be daft, but you've been judging me the whole time! What happened to feminism, you ask; it is girls like you who _assume_ that people like me who 'stoops to such a level' degrades her _own_ sex! You already create a restrained gender convention by judging my sexual behaviour! Condemning me by it!"

Lisa appeared taken aback at this, but she did not doubt some of Grace's words. Both of them had been yelling at each other, so loudly, that other people had stopped to see what the commotion was about. However neither girl seemed interested in the world around them. Grace was trying her utmost best not to cry. She needed Lisa more than ever, yet the girl had separated herself.  
"You're so blind – can you not see that when he hurts you the next time, I will have no sympathy? Because you did such a personal thing – he now will take great advantage over you, mentally and physically! I am astounded you regard yourself so unworthy, to belittle yourself and sleep with him! Ever since I've been with Cormack, you've been a right sorry sight. So I'm not surprised you went off with him. Your hostility towards Cormack, and even Dina is just astounding, Grace. You're so bitter, you can't get over yourself. Well, you know what? Dina came up to me, poured her heart out-"  
"Since when did you and her become mates?" spat Grace, her voice hurt from her shouting. Lisa ignored her.

"-She said you've been horrible to her, cold, since she ever met you. And you make sarcastic quips about them sleeping together, but she told me it's never happened. He just kissed her is all, but she suspects that you two have had it away. I denied it at first, but now I know what kind of girl you really are, Grace Gilmartin!" Grace stood there, her mouth agape. She wanted to shriek at her friend, tell her in desperation that she was drunk, she remembered nothing. Lisa didn't allow for anything more and turned away hastily. She walked very quickly away, and did not turn the usual corner towards the art studio. Grace stood there, in the middle of the busy campus, and watched the blonde hair and denim eventually disappear. She felt numb. She hated herself. There was nothing left for her now, she felt in that entire moment. Yet, she pulled herself together.

Other people had heard their argument, and were staring at her, looking down at her belly. She did not notice the rain as she walked home, and when she opened the door, the house's smell hit her. It was no longer than old-fashioned kind of smell; old knitted throws, stale air and books with brown crinkling pages. It had been replaced with a stark, terrible kind of smell, it was clinical, and it stank of a hospital.

_ Was he embalming someone up there_, she mused. It came to her again about Dina.

What was all the banging coming from his room then, if they had not slept together? The girl was lying. She chucked her keys on the side table tiredly and trudged upstairs. She took out her mobile, and found a number of the abortion clinic. She would neglect to tell him about the pregnancy, God knows what he would do, or say. Or act. It must best to not speak a word. She dialled, and waited.

* * *

**Author's hasty note:** Lisa's outrage expressed with 'Tampin' (Tamping) is a Welsh slang word for very annoyed, angry.

A couple of references in here, but can be hard to spot as I've altered the actual phrases. One is from the film 'Knocked Up', and the other is from the novel 'Pride and Prejudice.'


	14. Labyrinth

**A/N;** Hello, very sorry this is a late update. Thank you to those who have reviewed and read this story. Hope you are enjoying it.

_Labyrinth _

Grace was listening away to her music player, as she walked down the road. It was at least a fortnight later. She had made a few important decisions in those two weeks. The song she was listening to kept her spirits up, as she sauntered back home, after another art session. She was not yet on speaking terms with her friend Lisa, despite her best efforts. Lisa neglected to show up at the art sessions in those weeks. She occasionally spotted her in town or on campus, but it was hardly on her own or with her friends, she was always with Cormack. Grace tried to ignore it, she had fair confidence that Lisa would get over it eventually. She was not sure why she had that ounce of confidence in her, but it was sheer determination to keep 'buggering on' that stayed strong within her. She could think of her life as utterly wasted and useless, despite the high education she had received and was receiving, although others may deem it as unworthy. Such as Crane, yet his opinion was of no consequence to her. She had no contact with her parents in the past three and a half months; it was trailing into December now. She had lost contact with her only one really good friend at the University. Other people were mere acquaintances, and were not looking for the kind of friendship you looked for while as an undergraduate. A lot of students at postgraduate level had steady jobs going, or already had a circle of friends.

It was easy enough for Lisa, who was living with a bunch of 'freshers'- first year undergraduates. She tried, most days, to avoid thoughts of Crane. Often Grace spotted Dina walking around in her ghastly yellow trench coat, a coy smile on her face. Yet she ignored Grace immediately, especially if she was on the arm of Crane. He always appeared uncomfortable at her physical contact. She ignored them both, feeling glad to see Dina was not best friends with Lisa. She had been hurt and betrayed by Lisa attending to Dina's emotions, her silly, childish, girly emotions. She often hoped Crane would pull a real ugly stunt in front of Dina and scare her off forever. It was at that time of year, drawing near to Christmas, that Grace felt most at content with herself. She liked the cold air and the excitement of the atmosphere.

She loved picking out which scarf to wear, although she was desperate for a new coat. Her tartan woollen one was wearing thin. The cafes in town sold 'winter' drinks; spiced latte coffees, black forest hot chocolates….The shops were decorated with every assortment available, and everything she saw made her feel happy and giddy inside like a child once more. Yet simultaneously, she began to think of her family, of her mother in particular. Would her family ignore her this Christmas? Tears threatened to prick at her eyes, but she did her best to ignore them. She heard Christmas songs in each shop and café she went into, reminding her of her childhood. She had a very good childhood, despite the squabbles with her mother. She had never a sibling, but there were so many children in her neighbourhood at the time, it never dawned on her that she was missing a brother or sister. She began to look for a coat, in time, as well as pregnancy clothes. She had seen her GP as soon as possible two weeks ago. The thought of abortion simply disturbed her.

She had an appointment set. She was ready to go through with it. She went to the hospital, her palms sweaty. Yet everything around her was unsettling. She had read up every detail on abortion. And she simply could not go with it; it frightened her down to the core. It was not as simple as she had hoped; it was not as clean as she hoped. It would be traumatic. In the end, she walked out, and missed her appointment. She made several apologies on the phone. However, facing the actual birth of her potential child was much more frightening. It began to hit her steadily all over again as she rifled through the clothes rack in the pregnancy department of the clothes store. Marks and Spencer she had chosen. And it hit her all over again that the father was Jonathan Crane; he was the man she had slept with. She tried to imagine, painfully, how it came about. How they got each others clothes off. Why him of all people, she thought so desperately, yet it made perfect sense. He was her housemate. He appeared to loathe her, he was rude and hostile, he had threatened her, he had hit her round the face….Not quite a Mr. Darcy.

But she reckoned he secretly fancied her. Then she thought once more of his countenance and her cunning smile fell. She highly doubted that. But she highly doubted that sex was something he often participated in. She would have to be an extra special girl for him to….perhaps not. Perhaps he thought now he dominated her. Oh no, she mused. Hardly likely. She received a rather sour glare from the female cashier who served her, scanning the labels of the pregnancy clothes with haughty disdain. Grace tried to ignore her, but it bothered her all the same, and flounced off with her nose in the air. It seemed the world was entirely against her at this point.

As she walked home, instead of getting a taxi, she knew she would never keep the baby. It was not a point in her life where she was ready to raise a child. She knew nothing about children, and she hadn't the money to raise one either. She would be doing her baby an injustice; bringing an unwanted child into the world. Yet she was a coward. Adoption was the only thing she could think of, despite the fact it would be far difficult than an abortion. She bit her lip. Yet continual dreams at night were red-stained and tainted with her blood, and a tiny embryo lay on the floor beneath her, as she stared in horror. How could she put her body through abortion? How could she put her body through a birth, an unwanted one?

Another thought that came to mind was Crane. She thought briefly of a _Friends_ episode. It would be a wonderful thing if it was accidentally taped on camera. Tell who came onto who, and if it was actually satisfactory. But she shook her head, laughing at the ludicrousness of it. She wondered, if she had actually enjoyed it. She had never thought of him as a sexual being, even when he had kissed her forcefully that night, which had been extremely unpleasant. Had he found it pleasant? Who lead on who, who initiated it? It drew her mad thinking about it; perhaps it was best to keep it at the back of her mind. It was near impossible, especially as she carried the evidence in her body. The ever horrible truth was present, constantly. He had marked her, permanently. She wondered how he would react when she told him the news; would she? A smile on her face formed. The other partner of a one-night stand never, in some circumstances liked hearing such news.

She would take utter pleasure in telling him the news. She would wait for a while, she pondered, as she made her way to the pharmacy. She had to pick up a few things that would help her through pregnancy. She couldn't believe she was preparing herself, it felt surreal. But a certain kind of numbness had overtaken her, and she began to do these things without any kind of preconception. She blocked, literally, thoughts out of her head, including those of Lisa. She had an ache when she remembered that Lisa had been her only good close friend and she had lost her. Yet, Lisa had been incredibly unfair and judgemental. She wasn't very tolerant of people such as Lisa who flew off the handle. She had to take it as a token of affection, in an odd way; Lisa was cross with her because she had slept with her tormentor.

Who had, in truth, been an officious prick. There were far better ways to describe his disposition, but she didn't want to waste her energy on it. So she walked down to the local pharmacy, in search of maternal pads, some vitamins, and some sleep aids. Grace entered the small shop, which had a certain smell that all pharmacies had, a plastic carpet-like smell. As her eyes skimmed over the various over-the-counter medicines, cough syrups and the like, she saw the usual rack of hair accessories and other knick-knacks she wasn't sure why pharmacies sold. It made her smile, as she twirled a pink headband in her head, made for little girls. She had a small perusal of the makeup, where she liked to dab various eyeshadows, lipsticks and foundations on the back of her hand, nose wrinkling at some, eyes twinkling at others. When she finally had the courage, seeing no one had been at the counter for the past ten minutes, she picked up all the things that were so obviously pregnancy related. As she turned the corner, something made her stop abruptly in her tracks. Her heart fluttered under her rib cage.

She chucked the maternity pads as far as she could into the room, and it landed ungraciously between the tampons and normal feminine pads. He had heard the noise immediately, looking up from his clipboard, and zoned in on her. His glassy eyes widened at first; there was a horrible deadness in them, which fixed her to her spot. Soon they narrowed. He stood at his usual six feet, white lab coat over his standard brown suit and pitiful sweater; whether it was sleeveless or not today she hadn't a care. Even from a distance was he considerably taller than her, as she took a chance to observe the future father of her child. She wasn't a short-arse as such, she mused, but she was at least a good six to seven inches smaller than him.

The shoulders of his suit were too large for his frame, making him look lanky in figure. Either that or he gave off a particular 1980's fashion hue. The sleeves of his sports coat were too short for his arms, she noticed under his lab coat. On the surface he was presented neatly, but as she carefully studied him, he had the dishevelled look of a scarecrow. The swept back oily hair sat as it normally did in the sunlight. It was coarse, almost the texture of straw. She wondered if she had run her hands through it, on that night. His hands were poised on the counter; he had placed his fountain pen beside the clipboard. Thin wrists, but long hands, the flesh of the skin a nasty pink and white. They had touched all over her at one point. Or perhaps they had not. Perhaps it was a wham-bam-thank you-m'am kind of situation. He finally acted; she wasn't reacting at all to him. She just fixed him with an expressionless stare. He swallowed.

"Grace." He smirked afterwards, and then licked his lips, unconsciously. He eyes trailed loosely over her. He could sense her discomfort, and she knew it, and straightened to her full height.

"I didn't know you worked here," she said flatly.

"Work experience and money," he replied in an equal tone. She didn't believe a word he said. He wanted chemicals and drugs and utensils. He probably thought she was stupid. His eyes drifted over her, in such a way that angered her. He analysed the things in her hands.

"Please don't look at me like that," she instructed him. Contrary to her word, she rather had a satisfied response at seeing him so agilely sweep those eyes of his over her.

"It's pleasurable to unnerve you in every sense of the word," he answered. She found she was grinding her jaw, and threw her things down on the countertop, grabbing a small packet of cough sweets. Her throat had become sore, she wasn't sure why. Probably all that shouting with Lisa. He didn't take his eyes off her, appraising her with a cold look.

"I assure you, that in every sense of the word, it was the alcohol talking. You are repulsive to me. Your selfish disdain of other's feelings is hardly a likeable feature, and I daresay many women have been repelled by that, if any at all." She half expected him to reach across and take her by the throat, but he simply did not react. He sold her the vitamins, and sleeping aids, analysing them more than necessary. She shoved the things in her bag, loathing him and his conceitedness. She was utterly ashamed, and almost regretted defending herself against Lisa's accusations. You are a terrible person, was the echo in her mind. She had never regretted sleeping with anyone as much as him, others in the past had made her widen her eyes and shake her head. But every particle of her body felt as if it was alight with mortification. As if her crotch was stained forever. As she turned away towards the exit, he spoke in a whisper.

"Afterwards, you took a bottle of vodka into the shower. You were crying. I knew exactly why, I hadn't spared you kindness. Yet I gave you what other men hadn't." He saw her shoulders slump and then she twisted back slowly to face him, her eyes watery. They were ready to burst, but no tears came, much to his chagrin. He liked to see her cry.

"Do you think because I am plain, scarred and distorted both in shape and mind, you think I am totally without feeling?" She then realised her statement and wrinkled her nose in disdain.

"Course you wouldn't," she snapped. In that moment, she decided, to wound his pride, to get the truth out of her, to let him know the ridiculous truth when he got home. She swallowed and inhaled a large amount of air.

"When do you finish work?" she asked. He just looked at her blankly, and then picked his pen back up, indicating he was no longer interested in conversing with her. She waited for a minute, and then sighing impatiently, he answered her shortly. Four hours time; she nodded. Good, that gave her time to muster up the courage she needed. If anything funny happened, she would have a weapon on guard, and her mobile phone in her pocket.

"Will you be back home after?" He looked up at her question and raised his eyebrows.

"Does this dreary questioning, a waste of my time, have any purpose, Miss Gilmartin?" he spoke idly. She was shocked, upon analysing and piecing together his behaviour in that moment. He had gone from dangerously mocking and playful to entirely disinterested, as if she was a bit of dirt on the bottom of his shoe, or a bothersome fly, buzzing around.

"Yeah it does, actually. In the kitchen, half past five." With that, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the pharmacy. There was a nestle of both apprehension and pride in her stomach. _I gave you what other men hadn't. _The very nerve! She was incensed with his words, as if he saw her as a common girl, nothing to satisfy her but the wild nights of sex and drug abuse. She walked home with her nose in the air, knowing he would not refuse her. She would view it as cowardly and fearing and she knew him all too well. Surely not would he be intimidated by her? She gave a satisfied smile, as she made her food back home.

* * *

When he arrived home, briefcase in hand, he would be lying if he told himself he was not intrigued. He shut the door quietly behind him, so the latch barely clicked. The hallway was shrouded in darkness, which give him satisfaction. Crane sucked the cold musty air through his nostrils. He preferred this time of the year, where it became dark as soon as the afternoon became late. In this country in particular, it became quite dark by four, which gave him all the more pleasure to relish the early darkness. He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly frowning. He heard her voice upstairs, and the water running. He had come home as soon as he could; it was ten past five. He went up the stairs slowly, all the while staring at the door of the bathroom, and placed his briefcase beside his bedroom door. He kept his eyes on the door. He could smell her shower gel, a cinnamon kind of smell. The thought of the other night came to him as he thought of her in the shower. Frowning, he shook it away.

He heard her, on occasion; sing out of tune in the shower. Whether she was oblivious to him or not, he did not know, but he was rather sure she could hear him about. She was always sung the same song, and he memorised each lyric until he searched it online. Lisa Loeb. Something about staying and missing someone. The woman's voice was high and sweet-sounding, but he despised such music. However, sometimes he played it, and the woman's voice almost melted into Grace's. Near impossible, as the woman hailed from his country, and hers was tinged with that common sounding dialect. He decided he would wait until she came out of the shower; he had not appreciated her sarky, impatient tone with him earlier on. He was displeased, almost, that she had forgotten the night, the earlier part of the night.

Only then would her impertinence would be crushed. How far would it take him? How far would he have to go in order to reach into the crevices of her soul and break her apart? He had physically abused her, he had verbally insulted her. She most likely thought him a dreadful ex-boyfriend, or some common thug who appeared like a respected man on the surface. He wondered what she had to say to him. What possible, importance could she have to say to him? There was only one way where he could properly break her, and he smirked to himself. His hands that hung down by his sides tensed, stretched into their full lengths and then balled into fists, as he slipped them casually into his trouser pockets. She stopped singing and showering five minutes ago; he had been so absorbed in his thoughts. Finally the door knob turned and the door clicked open. A large gust of steam blew out with her as she exited the room, and upon seeing him, having standing so close to the bathroom door jumped in fright. She put her hand on her chest, and he watched her carefully, his senses filling with a sadistic pleasure. It would please him when he'd finally finish his next batch and see her under its influence.

Gilmartin was quick to compose herself, and although she was wrapped in a long thick towel, she was indifferent to his intruding gaze. She had been uncomfortable to meet with him in the pharmacy; it had been the first time they had seen each other after his news. But she did not give any of her emotions away now, and fixed him with an inquisitive stare. He did not wait for her to speak, cutting her off.

"So what did you want to talk about, Grace? Why was it so urgent you needed my immediate presence at this time of day?" She ignored his and he could see her swallow, a small bump in her white smooth neck moving ever so slightly. She immediately picked up on his eyes drifting down at her neck and mouth, and a small twinge of discomfort erupted in her stomach. She was very sure he had done it on purpose though, the way he had kissed her neck when he told her the dreadful news. Or was it so dreadful. Sex is sex, she thought. And all the better for her, if she had not remembered it. He was repulsive in manner, was all surface and held no charm underneath. If he had any likeable qualities, at least he didn't go around wearing football shirts, holding a can of Fosters and making sexist crude jokes. She knew she was generalising. But at least he wasn't part of the obtrusive male student clan that so often found these days. Alcohol and sex mad.

"You wish to know it, on this landing?" she asked him, eyebrows raised. She gripped the towel around her as tightly as she possibly could. He stared at her blankly for a moment, as if processing the information; eyes alight in the darkness of the upper hallway. Her hair stuck out like knitting where the cats had got at it, giving her a slightly deranged, wild look. Grace remembered she had a dressing gown hung up in her room, the door right in front of her face. She tried to show indifference of his sudden presence and went into her room briefly to grab her dressing gown, but was nearly shocked further into cardiac arrest when he followed after her, the door catching in his hand. He stepped right into the room as she quickly wrapped the gown over her, as if protectively. He let the door slam behind him and fixed her with a poignant kind of stare, one that would burn on the back of her retinas, like a bright light. He flared his nostrils before he spoke, but kept his respective distance. Her cheeks were flushing, unbeknownst to her. He was becoming very impatient, his hands behind his back now.

"What could you possibly have to say to me that is of any importance?" he snapped at her. She was taken aback, and her heart began to pound very hard beneath her chest. She kept her composure, although her left hand fiddled with her hairbrush that was dumped on her bed earlier.

"Spare me the usual condescending verbal abuse," she retorted tiredly. "It's news in relation to that oh-so wonderful night we shared." If he had anything to say or think, he did not reveal it, he continued to stare at her, x-ray her down with his attentive eyes. She saw the usual bulge in his jaw. Teeth grinding, lips pursing slightly. She couldn't do it, as she glanced down at her hands. She couldn't do it. She stared down at her belly. _Oh God, oh God. _He saw her hands shaking as she fiddled with her hair-ridden hairbrush, she hadn't pulled hair from it in months. They were very badly shaking, worse than he had ever seen. He was astounded; he couldn't even imagine what she had to say about that night. His apathetic, callous mind could not imagine, other than verbally chide him, or confess something which would contribute to his satisfaction, or ego. It simply did not occur to him. She could not find it in her heart to tell him. How would he react, her mind chanted over and over.  
She could not find any gusto to look at him in the eye, when he was so evidently staring her down with those chilling orbs of scornful mirth. He would have no sympathy, whatsoever, and it felt far too personal in her room. He was invading her space.

She saw he still kept his distance. Grace was utterly paralysed with dread. She tried to keep that strength she had felt in herself for the past fortnight since her life felt like it had taken a huge bump on the rocky road. There had been bumps before, but this was one that caused her to fall off her feet, with no one to help her. The strength was slowly crumbling away. At least she had people to help her when she suffered with her addiction, now she had nobody. He blinked expectantly at her, through is wide lenses, but his face was cold, unfeeling. She swallowed a huge lump at the back of her throat, not realising she was wringing her hands.

"Well do make haste, Gilmartin. I haven't got all day to wait around for you," he snapped. Clearly, he had no idea. For a supposed intelligent man of worth, what an ignorant being he was! Especially about women and reality! Grace tried not to scowl at him, but it was impossible. She blurted it out before her brain had time to fully register the consequences. She spoke the dirty words. _I'm pregnant. _

For a moment, it was as if Medusa had turned him into stone. He did not move an inch, and his incredible knack of being able to withstand blinking truly did wonders, as Grace watched him, terrified he'd lash out, and hit her. His hands were still in his trouser pockets, so casually, as if he had just been on a summer afternoon stroll. She didn't realise she was breathing loudly, which gave him such great satisfaction. In all good reality, he was drinking in her fear like a thirsty, starved animal. She didn't notice, due to his glasses, that behind him his eyes widened, pupils dilating as he took the sight of her wretched state in. She studied him, her eyes too unblinking, but she felt her heartbeat was visible through her clothes.

_Large breath, take a deep, large breath, _her mother would always say when anxiety struck high. But that was for exams. A classroom presentation. She looked at the ground for quite a long time, but decided that wasn't the attitude she wanted to present. She glanced back up at him and stared at him unblinkingly.

His mouth was hung open, ever so slightly, and she could see the whites of his bottom teeth. She saw his Adam's apple bob as he took a large swallow. He looked like he was the Grim Reaper; just sent from the depths of the earth, eyes caved in, large rings under them, cheeks sucked in, eyes horribly dark and sinister looking, a frightening contrast compared to those pale eyes he usually sported. She smirked at him and folded her arms.

"Yeah, nothing to say now have you? Can't give me one of your intelligent quips? Oh how I've learnt to love those!" She realised, in all of a sudden, she did not care for his reaction, or his opinion. She unfolded her arms, and picked up her tattered coat and her small black handbag. She threw it over her shoulder, and stormed to the door, looking at him in the eye as she went, but spoke nothing.

She half expected him to grab her roughly, or say something, but as Grace exited onto the landing, he did not say anything. It astounded her, beyond belief. She descended down the stairs, but he followed her immediately, unable to let her go. She did not have any time. She wasn't even sure where she was going, it wasn't as if Lisa was around anymore.

"Gilmartin-"

"I don't want to hear it!" she yelled. She was down the stairs quickly, tripping slightly on the last step. Crane stood in the middle of the stairs, gazing at her with that impenetrable mask. Grace didn't think and grabbed the nearest thing, it was the landline phone. It was not plugged in since they did not pay for the landline, and she chucked it as hard as she could across the hallway. It smacked straight into the opposite wall, and clattered on the ground, the handset had broken on impact, the cheap plastic now evident in the breakage. She thought she saw him smirk, but she barely left time for it, before leaving the house in a hurry.

Grace strode down the road as hastily as she could, paranoid he'd come after her. But he didn't, and she saw he slammed the front door of the house hard. She almost expected a flurry of tears to emerge from her dry eyes, but they didn't. She walked on and on, until she got to the town, and then began walking down the old country lanes. Old weather-beaten signposts signalled 'Woodland Walks' that ran for longer than ten miles. She glanced down at her feet, as she felt the lights drops of rain on her cheeks.

She was wearing her pink converses, the most comfortable pair of shoes she had ever owned. She entered the little side path that led off from the road, the bramble bushes brushing clean against her arms and legs. The wind drove hard against her, whipping her hair back, ruffling her clothes, screaming hoarsely in her ears. She felt like the only person left alone, in the world. A single-to-be-mother. A previous junkie and whore.

She could not fathom why he had not thought of such consequences! To think of using protection, when he fucked her. Perhaps he did, she did not remember of course. She had been on birth control for as long as she remembered, perhaps she told him. She stopped dead in her tracks, glancing at the barren hills of the Yorkshire moors. The sky was a blank slate of grey, promising no sun for many days to come. She had forgotten a pill. She always took them at night, before she went to bed. And she had gone home drunk, and rapped on Crane's door. Maybe he was starved for physical attention; she had seen him look at her in that certain way, that certain way of _his. _Maybe she had already started on him and he could not stop her.

On she drove against the wind, eyes strained against the stinging air that carried droplets with it. Her hands were balled into little fists as she walked against the wind, howling and howling away in her ears. She realised she wanted home. She wanted to call her parents, and talk to them. She had been so very close to her mother all her life. She picked up her phone, and realised already, that it was vibrating in her hand. _Dad. _Her heart leaped in her chest.

* * *

Her words kept running through his mind, but he was not fazed by it. He would not be fazed by such a deplorable, unworthy person such as her. Staring at him with those glassy light brown eyes, wounded, if she was concerned what his opinion was.

He sat upstairs, heavy duty chemical gloves on. He'd taken the care to get hold of some now. The skin on his hands was becoming far too flaky, dry and red. Before he would know, the skin would be gone, left only with dry bone and lumps of red, skinned skin.

He stared in concentration at the two solutions in his hand. He was getting there, he could feel it, yet it had taken months to amend, reworking it several times. In several moments, he had doubted his efforts, but he would not falter, thinking back to the weakness felt in those dark, olden days. How he would love to keep maintaining his sensations of revenge. He'd carried out his first mark of it when he was not yet seventeen. Dragging himself away from those memories, he thought back to the task at hand.

But it was difficult, especially with _her, _and her ridiculous words. Crane wasn't the first man or the last man, to admit that there had been a fault in his actions somewhere. But he was not going to admit that her news was going to make him hesitate. He was not dense; he had seen those birth control pills in her room. He disliked how she assumed he was so uneducated and ill-informed on certain situations within life. The ignorance of her! And how drunk he had been on power. How close he was to reaching for the old, comforting mask and the syringe that lay so close in his reach. But the overwhelming desire to exploit her weakness became the first thing he succumbed to. He did not want to dwell on such stupid, worthless things. Her feelings and her situation were of no consequence to him. He might tap into her feelings and make her dinner. Slip the right amount of chemical in, and the foetus would be drained out. Gone. He already knew what she would do, as he sat there, under the amber light of his study lamp. The girl was predictable as ever.

The rest of his room was swathed in darkness, despite the fact it was late afternoon. There was a faint whirring to the right of him. Below him on the stained furnished wooden table was a vast array of things; tweezers, a couple of empty syringes, a beaker full of a diluted substance…

She wasn't the most interesting case, as of yet. He had come across far more interesting test subjects, such as people with serious mental disorders. People who were traumatised. People who were disabled, legs missing, brain damaged. He had met incredibly bright students, ones with different ideas, although he always scoffed at them and their arrogance. Some whom he thought would be worthy subjects for his new batch, perhaps even his old batches. Although those were most unpleasant, and had always left such unpleasant physical and mental results…Some were left in a vegetative state, some had been paralysed physically. Some had ended up at Arkham.

That wasn't his fault, of course. The chemicals reacted well enough, they gave him what he wanted, but left significant evidence that he wasn't keen on. He only wanted specific evidence, especially if he'd given a full dosage. He wanted to be clean, neat, precise. How messy he had been in his younger days. Still there was plenty of time for improvement; it was just the matter of his patience. It was wearing thin. Gilmartin was nothing special, a girl with a dirty past. She was plain, common, ordinary. She even had the most common fear….the most primal of them all. Nevertheless it did intrigue him.

As far as he could tell, she was in tip-top shape. No sign of an impending breakdown for sure, which seemed to bother him. There been several hardships in her life, yet she took them on, as if driving her head hard against a torrent of wind. He frowned, blinking hard, eyes strained. He needed to get his lenses sharpened sometime.

The wind howled against the window panes, hungry for something. He liked hearing that merciless howl, it was comforting, in it's fearless racking against the window. He poured one liquid into another, watching the liquids merge. Nothing. If such a thing as a smile graced his lips, it did. Now he needed a good test subject. He thought back to her, but she had been gone for hours on end, she had not even returned to the house last night. Not that it concerned him in the slightest. He had been up all night, and his muscles ached from the position that they were reduced to. Whenever he moved, something clicked and popped in between his joints.

He poured the final result into a large beaker and capped it. He slipped the gloves off, chucking them to a side. He then slipped his glasses off, and rubbed his eyes hard, tiredly. Sleep was for the weak, and he had long ago resolved that sleep always brought him to unforgiving dreams and tosses and turns throughout the unbearable night. He'd always been a night owl, hating the day.

Some students of his passed remarks he always looked tired. Some fellow professors remarked he was putting himself under too much pressure. How he wanted to mock them! But only did he grin and bear it. He couldn't pull any more stunts in a University, he'd done that only once, no matter how much he wanted to frighten his students and slaughter his colleagues.

He thought back to that housemate of his, that dreadfully irritating housemate. He'd scared her, but not in the way he wanted to. It was a never-ending fight within himself, with her. He could not understand why she irked him so, but she did. Was it because she supposed to see straight through him? She knew nothing of him, not even remotely.

He grew angry as he sat there. He had years of experience, he could see straight through others constantly, as if they were sheets of glass. He could see her for what she was, yet there was something he couldn't claw his way into. He glanced at the misty colour of his liquid, which he had corked very tightly. He slipped the gloves back on, ignoring the ache in his back and shoulders. He placed a white mask over his mouth, and uncorked more liquids.

* * *

The following afternoon, she finally took a walk back home. She had stayed in some grotty bed and breakfast for the night. She was unable to go back to that terrible house, for fear of clawing his eyes out. Still, her spirits had lifted somewhat. Her father and herself had talked for over an hour on the phone, before she found the B&B and checked in. The sound of her father's baritone voice instilled a sense of reality and grittiness that she felt she had lost during her time in Feston.

Her father usually gave her the kick-up-the-arse kind of talking, and this time it could not have been better said. They mostly talked about what happened in their lives recently, mostly to do with either her or her mother. Her father seemed quite reserved about his wife's opinions on their daughter recent confession. Grace knew somewhere that her mother was terribly missing her, but she was stubborn, something that Grace unfortunately inherited.

Her father told her that her mother had been ill for a couple of weeks. She chatted mindlessly about her course work and the antics of her and Lisa, but it left her with a numbness that was somewhat deadening. Like she had sat on her leg for too long and all the blood had seeped away. She had been walking a county walk, along the moors of Yorkshire, the wind blowing as she spoke to her father. He talked about re-decorating her room for when she came back. She spoke about buying a bicycle and moving to York when she was finished. They were both avoiding such points and questions, but she knew her mother wasn't quite ready to forgive her. Her father had forgiven her, and that had given her hope. But it didn't stop the terrible anxiety she felt deep in her chest. She'd suffered from bouts of anxiety ever since her addiction days.

Dad, I'm pregnant. Dad, I'm living with a guy who has abused me and I'm carrying his child. Dad, this man who I've had dreams about each night since he told me the horrible news. Dad, I have plenty of money saved, and a roof over my head, but I have no friends. I am lonely, and I am sad. Tell Mum I'm sorry and that I love her and you with every inch of my heart and always will.

When she hung up, knowing with a certain kind of sense, she soon would be talking to her mother, she burst into tears. Luckily, she was in a country lane. They were only dog walkers about, or the lucky soul who had spare time. The clouds hung in the distance, with an impending doom, no promise of a blue sky. But they sat there, not even the harsh wind that rippled through her clothes could move their stone-like position. She slowly walked back, with a heavy dread, towards her student house.

Grace glanced briefly at other students who walked past her. Some in large groups, laughing. A couple, hand in hand. How she loathed them and yet how she wanted to escape into their lives! Her heart pounded as she approached the house, but perhaps it was time to forget about her fear of him. Perhaps she needed to speak to him with a kind of frankness, maybe he would understand, underneath that sinister cold exterior.

Her heart was all shuddery, her body trembling right down to her fingers. She entered the road her house resided in. Peckham Close. She hated to admit it to herself, about him. He had featured, in some way or other, in her dreams so frequently it was deeply unsettling. Never before had such things been evoked within her head during the night.

Grace arrived at the front door. The glass of the door reflected on her; her eyes were bright as if she was high on drugs, bright as a diamond. As she entered, there was no sign of him. She could not even hear him.

It was the same the following day. And the day after. The day after that. The day after that. He was gone for a fortnight.

It was blissful at first, for she had the house to herself, and no worry over-clouded her, like an unwanted stray cat wondering into the back garden, forever yowling. Her stomach felt like it was on fire. She had to scrub away at herself in the bath each time she thought of him. How thin he was. How his eyes just stared and stared, as if she was a subject for psychoanalysis. A song came to her head, as she lay in the bath for hours on end, each day. _No confidence in Anna Freud._

Had she enjoyed the feel of him? Had he been tender with her, or rough? She had felt nothing the next day. It wasn't difficult to tell when a man had been rough with you. She remembered the morning after she slept with her ex-boyfriend, on a stupidly drunken night. One bruise on her hip and her nether regions whenever she peed or walked, was like sandpaper. Rub, rub, rub.

She kept being sick also, and was convinced he'd poisoned her food in some way, or the water supply, while he was gone. She knew somehow it wasn't pregnancy sickness. Or perhaps it was. She was going mad. She didn't attend her lectures for one week, and tried to call Lisa when the week ended. But the girl hung up on her, and eventually Grace stopped trying when she found Lisa had her phone turned off constantly.

Grace thought her father had instilled a gritty reality into her, but it had only worked until she had stepped inside the door of the house. It was the house that drove her mad, made her want to curl up in a ball and close her eyes, go to sleep for the rest of her rotten life. She felt like the woman in The Yellow Wallpaper. She learnt to hate the wallpaper in that living room, although one day she managed to clean it. Yet not even cleaning could take her mind off him and the ever-present factor of their unborn child. She wanted to rip it clean out of her body, thinking of gruesome ways to rid herself of it.

She borrowed next door's hoover and sucked the living room dry of its dirt. She then dusted everything. A large bowl full of rotten pot-pourri sat on a worn-eaten oak chest, at the end of the living room, covering most of the bay window, blocking out the light if the curtains were ever opened. The place gave off pungent smell of old ladies and misfortune. Everywhere had a threadbare shabbiness to it, once expensive, now old and decrepit.

She dusted around the Edwardian fireplace, but left most of the dusting. It seemed a nesting house for every spider in Yorkshire. It was always freezing, as if the heating choose not to work in the specific room as well. But it did, as she touched the radiator beside the wall. She traced her fingers along the wallpaper of the room. Swirls, brown and blue, faded, once art-deco inspired. It looked like someone had projectile vomited all over it.

She thought she saw the pale colour of his eyes within the wallpaper. That was when she needed to take a long walk. She wasn't sure where, just anywhere. Away from that musty house and the thought of his whispered rasp, his sharp analysing gaze. She wanted to go, to leave. As if she never left a trace in the world.

* * *

She had been listening to _The National_ as she sat in her bath, soaking. She'd been washing the dishes, when he finally stepped into the kitchen. The light of the bright kitchen lamp caught off his hair, oily as ever. So he'd returned. He looked like he had just recently shaved; she could smell his aftershave. Clean as a whistle. Perhaps it had been some sort of sinister trip he had undertaken over the past week, or a trip that was academic, but she didn't want to know. He stood there, awkwardly as ever, with his hands behind his back. He checked his watch, once, twice. She realised, surprised she hadn't before, how ill-fitting his suits always were. He looked like he had given his hair a comb recently, slicked back. He was dressed all in black, looking like he worked for the mafia.

She gave him a brief glance, breathed through her nose, and turned her head back to the soapy water. She picked up a blue bowl, and washed the remains of tomato soup away. Washing dishes always had a perverted kind of satisfaction to it. If it had been a week ago, her anxiety might have worsened as he entered the room, but she merely ignored whatever she felt in the past. She didn't care. She saw in the corner of her eye he jutted his chin out, looking down on her from his height. He looked like a tall black shadow next to her. Then, she thought she saw him smirk.

"I presume you've had an abortion," he began. His voice was so quiet, so soft. It sent a shudder down her spine. It was as if his words caressed her, cradled her in its arms. She tensed a little, but continued to wash the bowl, that had been left on the side for days on end.

"What makes you presume I would?" she replied. She imagined she could hear his teeth grinding.

"I'll start again; did you have an abortion?" She stopped at his condescending tone, and stared straight ahead at the yellow paint on the kitchen wall, the water sloshing beneath her hands. It was warm and comforting, gave her strength. She swallowed, and turned her head back down, to continue with her bowl washing.

"No, I did not," was her answer, straight and to the point. He was silent for a while. She could feel his eyes burning into her, but that was fairly usual, she mused to herself. He spoke softly, once again, watching her ever so carefully. A raspy whisper that ran straight through her bones.

"And why not, Gilmartin?"

"I don't want to get rid of it. But I will put it up for adoption." That was her final answer. As long as she was concerned, having two weeks to think on it, he had no say, whatsoever on her decision. A mother was always a mother, it was a biological fact; while, quoting Angela Carter, the father was always 'a moveable feast'.

He watched her, for a grand total of eight minutes. The previous look he had on his face had been near-unrecognisable; as if a wholly new person had overtaken him. But it was uncanny; there was a dead, stony look in his eyes that was threatening, that was frightening. She had counted herself, but she did her best to ignore him, trying to cut out any flashes of him she had in her dreams. She felt time ticking. The clock on the wall was very loud above her. She heard his voice, mutter. It rang through the air. _Foolish,_ _headstrong girl. _She found herself fixing him with a glare, and then pulled the plug in the sink.

It was pouring with rain outside, but she could not stand to be in the house with him for much longer. She hated how almost attractive he seemed in a black shirt and suit. He appeared as if he was dressed for the occasion. She had terrible thoughts running through her head as she began to walk fast down the road, paranoid he was behind her.

How she'd like to stick a hand straight into her womb, and tear the wretched thing out. If only he was inhibited and pathetic, if only he was too reserved, let her stew in her pool of drunkenness. But no…he had to tear her up in all his vileness. His nasty mean mind. The way his eyes so coolly glided over, as if he saw straight through her, like seeing through glass. He looked like he wanted to shoot a knife into her stomach and twist it when she told him straight, just now. She wasn't sure what it was with him, whether it was a power thing or something psychological. He seemed to treat everyone around him as if a strange specimen for psychological analysis. Like he wanted to bind her up in a straightjacket and cut off her mouth, throw her in a room. Pick apart her mind with his hateful tweezers. She kept walking and walking until she got to the bed and breakfast again. She paid money for another two nights. She would return for her things later. She could not stand to be in the same house as him.

* * *

It was a day later. She lay on her bed. It was the first time in a while she hadn't felt nauseous. She lay on her side; lying on her stomach felt uncomfortable and almost always brought nausea on. She gazed at the swirls of the white ceiling. She hated herself, thinking about her past. What an understated girl she had been, back in school. Following everyone else around like sheep, always hopping on the bandwagon when opportunity called. She was the same at University, only by the time she stopped using, was she a changed person. She wasn't sure who she was anymore, and her insides felt the numb of it. She needed someone to cuddle her, very tightly, like her mother used to do. _Used to do_. As if her mother had packed her bags and left the circle that was her life.

The curtains of the little poky room were closed, just open a crack. It had been raining all day, but she had not moved from the bed. She had slept in until one in the afternoon. She stared and stared away at the ceiling. How she would like someone to cuddle with, just for a while. Perhaps have sex with after. She smoothed her hands over her chest, over one breast, pretending they were someone else's hands, just for a bit. She smoothed them slowly over her stomach, then over the tips of her thighs, breathing in slowly. Her eyes were closed. Slowly she slipped her fingers under her elasticised pyjama bottoms and touched her knickers, eyes still shut. She snapped them back open. The thought of him came to her, and it nearly made her shoot up, out of bed.

_His _hands on her. Smoothing over her belly…long spindly fingers working away…. She shut her eyes tight and buried her head under the pillow, trying to rid herself of the image.

One day, he will snap. She told herself with some kind of resilience, but dread settled in the pit of her heart like a beating drum. At the moment, he dislikes me, like an annoying fly_._ Something he has to bat away constantly. He is like the old man of the sea bearing down on the back of Sinbad the sailor. Trying to bear her down. He consumes everything in his path, like a locust. He makes flowers wilt with his stifling presence. One day he will wake up and hate me like none other.

She knew he felt that once, about his grandmother. She could picture his grandmother; a thin, frail, tight-lipped woman. She would have fish eyes. No expression. Her white hair curled into an elaborate tight bun, so tight the folds of her skin would tense. The other people he had taken his revenge on were only petty people whom he disliked. But with her, she was the girl who had stepped into his path with her foot and tripped him over.

She had to go back though; she had to complete her degree. What was it with her life – why did she always seem to attract bad luck? Why didn't she have two, three, four, five other housemates who were normal? Noisy, messy, moaned a lot, were lazy, or were absolutely lovely in all the right ways. She knew she was hiding away from him, from the truth. She absentmindedly stroked her stomach, her eyes trailing over the poky, stuffy room. She couldn't help but constantly ponder over him, like an image that was tacked in her mind; his rimless glasses, framing those chilling eyes, always analysing, always with the quasi-Freudian examination. He was by far, the strangest person she had ever met, and she had met quite a bunch of people in her twenty-four years of living.

Yet there was an unattainable matter about him; he had never felt more distant but close to her in this time. Like he had possessed her and poisoned her, found out about her, as much as he tried to, and now impregnated her; something in all her vivid dreams, she would not have imagined. Yet his behaviour was both unsurprising and astonishing. He was wholly indifferent about her situation. To presume she would have an abortion. Perhaps that was not such an unusual thing to think, but she wasn't a teenager anymore; maybe she needed this, a new child. She shook her head in shock – she wanted to study, to travel, to move out of her parents' house and find a job which would involve her in her passions.

Grace decided that moping in this poxy bed and breakfast room with a bad paintjob, brown frayed curtains that were too long and a rather cheap canvas with an enlarged red rose on it. She realised how lonely she was and not the normal lonely she might have felt at one point in the past; lonely for a boyfriend, homesick, lonely because she craved a bit of human contact. No; she had been utterly alone for the past few months. No contact with her parents. Lisa, who really had been her only friend at Feston University, had broken off all contact with her.

She packed all her things away, stuffing them into her holdall, and checked out of the place. She took a slow walk back, gazing at the pebbled ash of the grey student houses she passed, once she walked back from the centre of town. Most of the student houses had little bay windows, on both ground and first floor. Some had no curtains, and one desk was littered with papers and books. You could tell the unkempt messy front gardens with large black bags of rubbish belonged to students. Occasionally she saw an elderly woman come out of one house in her slippers, shuffling down the end of the road to the gleaming red post box. Grace decided she would keep walking, although she was unsure where. She was desperately behind on her work. She saw other students pass her by, so engrossed in their own lives. They were so happy. They had great social lives. They were having fun.

All she could think about was the embryo in her and him. How she wanted to reason with him! To talk some sense in him. She tried to remember anything of that night, how he might have felt against her, whether he was gentle with her, how he caressed her, if he did at all. The skies opened once again. She had done a large loop, and was heading back into the centre, along the outside road of the town. All around the town were the Yorkshire moors, deep and forbidding. She was soaked within minutes, but it was strangely refreshing to have the cool clothes stick to her skin, and the droplets of rain drip off her nose and trickle down her neck.

She realised, horribly, that she was craving contact with specifically him because he was the only one in her life right now, despite being the person he was. The fact that he was the father of her future child made all the more sense. She contemplated about sitting down with him, being frank with him. Would he see sense? He was an intelligent man. She had no doubt of that. Arrogant, but perhaps advanced intelligence in someone so scarred as him came with the territory; a sort of defence mechanism.

Grace almost stopped herself with a frown. She was pardoning him, the man who had bullied her since she had moved in. No matter what he had done to her, she found he had not greatly moved her, not like other people had done in her life. She knew this was a good thing, and would have to keep at it. She kept walking, facing the pavement; her hands snuggled in her coat pockets, her mind deep in thought. She was very much unaware of the world around her, until she noticed a car had stopped beside her, but she ignored it. It continued to drive slowly beside her. Irked, she turned her head, and realised it was his BMW. Her heart immediately began pounding, half tempted to keep walking on, but she had planted her feet firmly on the ground. He rolled down his window, gazing at her intensely. His eyes gave her the once-over.

"You're soaked, once more. Home is at least another twenty minutes away." She frowned at him, and began to walk slowly away.

"I'm quite fine walking on my own, I rather like it," she replied over her shoulder.

"You'll catch cold. And that coat is not doing you any favours." His tone was quite hard, although his words were meant to be caring and soft. She nearly smirked at the irony. What was this, bloody_ Jane Eyre?_ If she didn't know any better, he was trying to entice her into something, but his face was blank as ever. Her eyes flickered over to the backseat of his car, very purposely, he was watching her closely. The back of the car seemed to be cleared of the beakers and other equipment that seemed to clog the leather seats and space beneath them. She looked at his white hands resting on the steering wheel, as the rain pelted down.

Her heart hammered so firmly against the hollowness of her chest it was near difficult to regain her breath. She had to turn around and ignore him, not give him any kind of satisfaction, of bending her to his will. Even something disguised as kind like this. She knew he didn't really care that she was soaked, and might catch cold. It was his normal way of trying to submit his domination over her, instill fear into her. She gave him a direct look, straight eye contact, and climbed into the back. She didn't really want to walk all the way back soaked, really.

Grace sensed by climbing into the back she was giving him a great suspicion; she particularly wanted to see what he had hidden in the back. As soon as she slammed the door beside her, she hadn't a moment to strap herself in, and rolled to the side as he drove off the kerb. It was a brilliant move, for she could see a large black bag stuffed (rather hastily, it looked like) under the passenger seat. He had terrible driving skills. She saw he kept taking his foot off the accelerator every so often, and then pushing down on it, when he got past an old granny in a small Kia.

She shrugged herself awkwardly out of her damp coat, and plopped it on the seat beside her. It was very difficult not to catch his eyes in the rear view mirror, and she pretended to look deep in thought. After two nights away from him, it was almost easy to forget how intimidating he could be.

The eeriest thing was that he appeared completely normal on the outside, a rather haughty, cold-looking professor, but that was all. She frowned at the ground. To think, that she was contemplating sitting down with him and talking through her pregnancy decision with him. How it would have been simple with Charlie, even though he still lived in a fantasy land of beer, video games and heroin. _I can make you a nice take, Grace. Wanna do it in the bath? _ How she used to love him. How she'd lick her thumb and wipe it on the inside of his elbow, once he pulled the needle away. He'd press his lips on hers, whisper softly to her. Her mind was carried away for a few minutes, briefly unaware of whose car she was riding in. The thoughts began to morph from Charlie into Crane.

She snapped her eyes open, making sure everything was still as it was. He had one hand on the steering wheel. He didn't even have the radio on. She watched the back of his head, looked at the creases in his grey suit. She glanced around the car slowly and surreptitiously. She saw the end of a shoe box poke out from the bottom of his seat, and she saw gauze bandages, thin, rusty scissors and a pair of powdered latex gloves. She saw some tweezers, and an empty tube. The outside package of the bandages had a few spots of brown dotted in several areas. Blood. Gauze bandages.

The word echoed through her mind. He'd burnt himself again…His chemicals. She leaned over a little, and saw his right hand was completely swathed in bandages. Only his fingers stuck out, the skin smooth and white. They were in good condition. She sucked her cheeks in, shocked. His voice rang out, startling her. The rain was very hard on the car, and he switched the windscreen wipers, so that they know flung themselves back and forwards over the windscreen.

"I have an important lecturers meeting, so I will have to drop you near the house." She didn't respond, but when the car finally pulled into a crescent, where there was what looked like to be a Doctor's Surgery, her eyes lit up angrily. She grabbed her coat heatedly and flung herself out of the car into the soaking rain once more. Grace was close to storming off, but she could not go without speaking to him. It was like a pulsating vein in her mind, edging her on. The fire in her chest had become lit at last. The back white lights of the beamer lit up, showing he was about to reverse, but she rapped hard on his window. So hard that her knuckles hurt. He opened his window down, confusion and irritation simultaneously spread across his features. She leaned in, looking at him between the eyes.

"Is this your subtle way of trying to do something about it?" she snapped. He raised his eyebrows.

"I don't have to repeat myself. You will save yourself dignity," he replied very coldly. It was cold but earnest in its delivery. Since when did he care about her dignity? She knew she had lost it several years ago. She knew he was preserving himself, trying to cover up the fact he'd slept with her. He was about to wind the window back up, but she slammed her fingers down on the ridge of the window. His eyes widened condescendingly, keeping his slim finger on the window button.

"You are wishing to lose your fingers in the process as well as your dignity?" he quipped. She rolled her eyes at him, but nodded at his bandaged hand.

"Seems you have managed to save yours," she replied. She saw his left, good hand tighten very hard on the steering wheel, and his lips pursed.

"Watch yourself, Grace." She leant back, feeling the strands of her hair stick to her scalp. It was a horrible feeling. She swore she could feel rain droplets trickle under her knickers to her arse. She felt like he was telling her off like a child, and although it certainly wasn't the first time, she became irritated by it all the same. She always got the feeling he chose his words extremely carefully.

"I'm not going to get it aborted. I can't go through with that. I don't know why I have to justify myself to you, as well, since you have not shown a single preference, or care. Your heart is made of ice. I do wonder how you will make it as a psychiatrist, being so indifferent," she spoke softly to him.

He stared at her for a very long time, almost two minutes, his mind ticking away behind those frames. Tick, tick, tick, she could almost hear the static coming from his processing mind. He was looking at her as if her decision was ridiculous, illogical. She saw him swallow in that thin neck of his. He drummed his long fingers on the steering wheel, it looked slightly menacing. He cleared his throat.

"Come with me, I think you need to see something." She watched him, frowning, unsure of how to react. He tilted his head, urging her, raising his eyebrows and waving his hand to the passenger seat. Her heart was pumping hard now, wondering what on earth he could show her; after all, he was going to a lecturer's meeting. Reluctantly, feeling like she was going to regret this, she trailed back around the car to the passenger seat on the right side, and climbed in, slamming the door behind her. He moved the gear stick back into reverse, and they turned out of the small cul-de-sac.

He drove fairly fast along the main road once they exited several smaller roads, coming out of busy junctions. Rain still plopped down on the windscreen. They stopped at a junction with traffic lights. The road was busy, and further down the road was a large, brick building that looked somewhat grim amidst the haze of the grey weather. She realised what she was letting herself into, and glanced over to look at him. Sucked-in cheeks, floppy greasy hair. This suit smelt of moth balls. She cascaded her eyes over his face.

"I've just realised I've let myself into something stupid. A dinner with your pretentious twats," she mused, turning to gaze back out the window. The car in front was being intolerably slow, and a fog of brownish smoke was chugging out the exhaust pipe. In the front of the car was a swinging ornament from the mirror. The woman in front was haggard with bushy white hair, but she held a cigarette in one hand. Her music Grace could hear from the air-conditioned BMW. Why did he always have the air con on? It blew a horrible chill on her feet, despite wearing her converses. He did nothing to respond; in fact she could hear nothing from him, not even breathing. He drummed his fingers on the leather steering wheel. She was far from dressed for a potential formal dinner; all she had on was a thin camisole with her usual worn jeans; her usual attire.

"I'm not even dressed for it," she mumbled, as he pressed the accelerator down, and span the wheel around with the palm of his hand. He was just ignoring her, which unnerved her. It was as if he was preparing her for something, either that, or he had other things on his mind. He seemed distracted. It was a further ten minutes before they managed to get through the traffic and into the car park of the brown building.

She saw several lecturers, mostly men in suits, mostly in their fifties to sixties, walking up to the front of the building. The front doorway was arched and held up by columns. The windows were large and arched. The grass was well kept. Everything seemed to be in place. The branches of the trees were bare but even did they seem neat and well kept. It looked like a 1950's all boys public school. Grace began to get nervous, and she tightened her hands together; they were incredibly sweaty.

Crane found a parking space within minutes, and faffed around for a bit, leaving her to ponder on her nervousness. He was shuffled things around in his briefcase which oddly enough he kept concealed from her. Her heart was thumping. She felt like she was having a brief panic attack, and found herself seeing something in the hedge ahead of her. The dark green hedge, perfectly cut, dripping with rain droplets. She heard his shuffling, and pressed two fingers to her pulse. It steadied her a little. Before she knew it, almost lost in a world of her own, something soft and familiar smelling landed on her lap. She jumped at it, and almost thought she heard him snort. She glanced down at her lap, seeing a familiar green dress. Her brows knitted together immediately. He snapped his briefcase sharply with an incredibly loud click.

"I anticipated this evening. So the end to your problem of not being dressed properly," he spoke in that cold voice again. His voice seemed to be much colder than usual, if such a thing was possible. She snapped her head to look at him, a horrible choking lump at the back of her throat. It was as if she swallowed a fish bone and it ached each time she tried to swallow.

"Where'd you get it? Have you been sneaking into my room again?"

"You left it in my room…." She didn't want to hear it any longer, knowing instantly why and how. All her previous qualms had been washed away instantly in her sheer irritation with him. How she wanted to smack that smug look off his face whenever that blessed night had been mentioned. She slipped the straps of her camisole off and slipped her arms out rather expertly. She then gathered the dress in her hands and found a hole to pop her head through. He was speaking as she had her head full of fabric, hearing the constant pitter-patter of rain on the window.

"Grace, why are you doing it here?" he asked.

Was he embarrassed by her irrational behaviour? She heard he had opened the car door, and she instantly caught the smell of rain. It was her turn to ignore him, and off she slipped her jeans with ease, fully aware he was getting himself wet in the rain as he watched her with a careful eye. She rolled her clothes up into a ball and chucked them into the back of the car; yes, it would give her an excuse to faff around in the back later. Dig around in his things.

He spoke her name, warning her, but before she knew it, he had thrown a pair of her black shoes onto her lap. This time she knew he had definitely been in her room, and this time she knew this was going to be a most important meeting. He was already walking off to the shelter of the front entrance of the building and she shoved them on hastily. Grace darted after him, using her soggy coat to shelter her dry clothes. She heard a wren in the nearby bush, chirping away, warning its fellow birds. She drew her eyes back to him.

How dare he go in my room, how dare he, how dare he, how dare he, the smug, self-assured little…He waited for her patiently, staring at her. Those eyes could cut through glass, their sharp incisiveness unnerved her no end; especially not knowing what was in store for her.

She saw his bandage had become in the space she had seen it, more bloodied. Before she could say anything, he grabbed her arm, pinching it tightly as he led her into a marble-floored elongated hallway; the kind that echoed greatly. The ceiling was high and on either side were two arches into two different rather large rooms. Ahead, a white marble staircase, that led beyond her view. She felt, despite this grand building, her interest was not piqued just yet. He hated her, and disliked her company at all costs, but invited her to something she could potentially embarrass him at. He had even gone so far to pick up her dress that was still in his room and fetch some shoes for her; the nicer ones she owned as well. Shiny flat dolly shoes, the inside lined with leather. If he hated her so much, why did they end up sleeping together? That was a rhetorical question she thought; you didn't have to admire and love someone to have sex with them. It sent a horrible chill down her spine. It was about power to him, control, perhaps fear, seemingly his favourite.

She could hear the familiar sound of a large group of people chatting away, and it echoed off the walls around them. It didn't take her long to realise that Jonathan's bandage had soaked right through, and was beginning to drop blood. For a moment, as he checked in at the reception desk, she watched his scarlet blood drop slowly onto the white marble floor, tainting it. She let him sign in his name and the name for his guest, managing to spell her name exactly right. Most people spelt it with a couple of L's. When they were away from the desk and the throngs of people who now began to enter, their shoes clicking on the floors and echoing throughout the entrance hallway. She made a grab for his right hand. He was totally unaware of her and anyone else; his eyes were fixed on something else. She paid no attention to his sudden ice-like stare, and held his thin hand in hers.

"Jonathan…the bathroom. Your bandage needs changing." She tugged him down another marble-floored hallway, this time smaller, flanked by recently re-upholstered elegant 17th century chairs. She briefly glanced over at what he was staring at; a rather elderly man who was stood on the wide stairs, talking discreetly to a man younger than him. Despite his age, he held his posture well, and was dressed in an expensive suit. His eyes darted about warily. Crane only managed to snap himself out of his thoughts when he realised his irksome housemate was dragging him down a corridor, in the completely opposite direction to where they needed to be. She tugged him into a small kitchen that did not fit in whatsoever with the rest of the building; in fact it looked like a school kitchen, with its metal counters and Health and Safety warning signs in every corner.

"The meeting begins in less than fifteen minutes," he began waspishly, glancing around the kitchen with a wrinkled nose. His eyes caught the set of sharp knives that were stuck to the wall via a magnetic container. His eyes swivelled back to her; she had opened a green first aid kit and was rifling through its contents. She ignored him, and he was half tempted to leave the kitchen, when he spotted blobs of his blood on the pristine grey-tiled floor.

He realised his earlier idiocy now resulted in her meddling; she'd be questioning him about what he had done, her suspicions would be further drawn…Not that he cared. He'd deal with her for once and for all soon enough. He was ever so desperate to get her out of the way now. He had much bigger things on his mind, but this evening would prove beneficial to him, to her. He'd twist her round the bend. She seemed to be absorbed in the task at hand, as his eyes took in her face, analysing each aspect of it. Her face was thin.

She might have put on weight elsewhere after her addiction, but her face always had that drug-addict hollowness about it. The sunken murky eyes. Meanwhile, Grace was in a totally different world. Her hands began to shake; she was unsure why she was helping him. She carefully unwrapped the wound, but it took some effort to peel away the pad attached to the bandage away from the wound. She figured he probably wanted her to be quick with it, but pulling it quickly might risk further wounding him.

His hands for once were oddly warm beneath hers. She felt his gaze pierce through her, as if he was trying to read her thoughts from the outside, as if he could x-ray her. His hand was delicate in hers, bony and slim. She took the chance to analyse his fingernails. They had grown a bit, not usually worn down like she had first seen them as. The skin looked like it was suffering from eczema, but she knew it was far from something as simple as that. The nails were discoloured. The kind of discoloration if you wore nail varnish far too often without removing it frequently as well. She knew that wasn't the case either. His smallest fingernail was black underneath; as if he had caught it in the door or dropped something on it.

She drew his hand to the sink further, and managed to rip the pad from his skin as fast as she could. His hissed in pain, but did not move from her. The skin had been badly burned and was now leaking pus. At least it was healing, she thought. The pus ran down his wrist slowly, but she wiped it away with an alcohol wipe. She asked him softly to put his hand on the counter. Oddly enough, she began to find enjoyment in touching his hand. The hand began to cool from her cleaning of it. The burn was putrid. He had not bothered to look after it.

"What did you do, Jonathan," she spoke calmly. She cleaned the wound itself, and he gripped her forearm in warning, more than agony. She knew it was a chemical burn; it was that obvious. She wasn't stupid; she had a brief idea of what burns looked like. He was handling chemicals everyday, from the look of all his beakers, and his easy access to a pharmacy, seeing as he worked there. And the fact he was studying something that dealt with such things; but it was drugs he was dealing with. He wasn't working in some industrial factory handling toxic chemicals used.

He kept a firm grip on her forearm, pressing the pads of his fingers into the bone of her thin arm. He could easily snap it if he wanted. She was becoming rather harsh in her cleaning of the wound. There were a dozen bloody tissues and pads in the sink. The blood soaked through and began to drain down the plughole. He didn't answer her for several moments. The skin was gaping apart, frayed and pink, crinkled at the edges where the harsh chemical had eroded his delicate skin away. The blood didn't seem to stop running from the new found layer of flesh, not normally exposed to such air.

"This might need better medical attention," she spoke to him truthfully. The fact he was feeling it was good enough, but she still doubted her own efforts. He pulled her into him a little, making sure to catch her eye. She dropped the last bundle of tissues, suddenly nervous he was going to attack her; he had that look in his eye.

"Questions get you nowhere, Grace, you understand?" he spoke softly to her. She began to wrap a new bandage around his hand.

"The more you are less than willing to reveal it, the more suspicious I become," she retorted, staring at him right in the eye. He smirked a little, as if applauded her for her audacity to stand up to him. Then, the chest which was rising to inflate himself as if in defence, slowly deflated, and he let go of her arm slowly. He dragged the tips of his finger purposely along her skin, softly before letting go. He turned around to exit the kitchen, without another backward glance but he was talking. She quickly cleaned up the large bundle of bloodied tissues and threw them into the nearby metallic bin.

"My job requires handling many chemicals," was all that he explained. He seemed uninterested in her, and didn't even thank her for cleaning him up. She decided that retorting something would not be a good idea. She didn't believe him in the slightest, yet he was doing nothing to make his point seem genuine. Either he had something worse cooking for her, or he thought she was ignorant or stupid. She knew he thought low of her, but not that low, he definitely knew she was not dense.

She followed him back out into the busier hallway. She now had a clear view of the large archway which led to another room, very grand, but very bland. She couldn't be bothered to take in the large grandness of it all. Many tables were dotted all over the massive room, draped in fine silky table covers, embellished with candles, glinting silver cutlery and large bundles of flowers. Hideous, garish flowers, a badly chosen array of several kinds which she did not know the name of. At the front was a flat white wall, where a projector was set up. She read the title of the presentation, a rather long never-ending sentence with psychology in it. She cared nothing for the rest.

Crane slowed down, and took her by the elbow, steering her around the various tables, until he found his presumed table. Her eyes darted to the names on the table, there were to be eight of them seated.

Many of the attendees were middle-aged, male and presumably all professors and doctors of psychology. They all walked in lowly, greeting each other politely, wives on their arms. Grace spotted a few female professors. Satisfied, she turned to Crane, a 'what now?' look on her face. He smiled rather uncharacteristically at her, and drew her seat out for her. Warily she took her place on the comfy, antique chair. She had a rather precise view of the projected presentation that was about to commence in five minutes. One by one, two by two, did the tables fill up, including hers and Crane's.

The others greeted respectfully, but they did not appear to know each other. A couple of young-ish looking lecturers sauntered up to Crane rather meekly; she could tell that Crane by far intimidated them. He was rather blunt towards them, despite his civil words. They were served their dinners first. Grace was silent the whole way through, a couple of times, she had to explain she was there with Crane, and they smiled at her in that way. Ah, yeah, his girlfriend. It left a horrible stone-like feeling in her stomach. She rubbed her belly absentmindedly.

Crane barely touched his food, and occasionally responded dryly to whatever the man on his right was blathering on about. Grace unsurprisingly had a ravenous appetite, and ate whatever was on her plate. By the time the coffees after the puddings arrived, she was bored out of her mind. She sipped at her Irish coffee delicately, savouring the taste. She wondered what game Jonathan Crane was playing at. She was half tempted to lean and whisper in his ear, but he kept a stealthy hand on her kneecap. To a person watching them, it looked affectionate, soothing, a kind touch from a loving boyfriend. She nearly gagged at the thought.

Eventually, they were introduced by an ancient-old professor to the presentation, on a brand of psychology. Everyone clapped and Grace joined in, noticing Crane had his eyes trained on the projection very carefully. She was bored even before it started and began shuffling in her seat unconsciously, provoking the man on her left to frown in annoyance. Crane kept catching her eye. It almost made her catch her breath each time she made eye contact with him. She sipped more of her white wine, on her third glass. Her head buzzed, but she knew she'd be making an incredibly stupid mistake if she became drunk, especially around Crane.

It was half an hour before her ears pricked up at the new topic that flashed on the projected wall. The words were unknown to her, and she went back to playing with her napkin. Crane was straight-backed in his seat next to her. Yet her eyes glanced up in apprehension when she finally heard the word. _False pregnancy. _Frowning, Grace concentrated on the aged lecturer, standing in front of a podium, glancing back and forth between his papers and the screen. His voice was low, but loud, and stretched right across the humongous room.

"Pseudocyesis, more commonly known as a false pregnancy, have the symptoms that of a normal pregnancy. The characteristic of this psychological problem, that is common to all cases of the of affected patient is the conviction; that is, she is certain she is carrying an unborn foetus. Abdominal distension is the most common physical symptom, as the abdomen expands the same size as when the patient is pregnant. Menstrual irregularity is also a physical symptom. Many doctors are at one time deceived by the false pregnancy symptoms, as they are similar to that of a genuine pregnancy.

This phenomenon has only begun to be understood by doctors and psychologists alike. Psychological factors are at the root of most of the affected patients. Often women feel an intense desire to become pregnancy often through problems of miscarriage or infertility, hence her body producing signs which are not linked to an actual pregnancy. This in turn, leads the woman to misinterpret these symptoms as a real pregnancy. Many problems might play a role in Pseudocyesis, but researchers claim that having a false pregnancy is not the same as having delusions of pregnancy, such as patients with schizophrenia. However, the new research gathered by Doctor U. Vlautin here, brings a new light on this unusual mental…"

The words drifted away into the background. Grace sat there, her muscles frozen. Her mouth slowly fell open. What a clever little bastard, she thought. Her hands rubbed at her belly, and she was hit with a wave of paranoia. She did not want to hear any more, but her feet seemed glued to the ground. She glanced around at everyone; they seemed extremely interested in what they termed this 'phenomenon.' She'd never heard of it until now. Crane turned to look at her, watching her. His eyes pierced her; giving her a warning as if to say 'Don't you dare move.' His hand tightened on her leg, moving further up from her kneecap to keep her pinned to the chair. He'd moved his chair closer to hers than she realised.

Little clever….She put down her wine glass and put her hand atop his. She began to pry his hand from her leg that seemed to be nearly ripping her flimsy green dress. The more she struggled, the harder he gripped the skin on her leg. She wasn't wearing any tights, and their struggling caused her dress to ride up her thighs.

"Let me go, Jonathan," she whispered.

"No I think this is benefiting you, wouldn't you say?" Someone at their table heard them whispering and turned to look at them. Crane's hand didn't soften on her leg, but he pulled a rather poor smile at the person who had turned to look at the source of the interrupting noise. She did what she could; unfortunately it was his good hand. She pinched the thinnest piece of skin atop his left hand she could find, and he recoiled in pain without delay. She stood up quickly, and Crane, not wanting to cause attention, let her go. She weaved her way through the dinner tables. People gazed at her curiously. She bit her bottom lip, keeping her hands clasped together in front of her, blinking furiously. Bed and breakfast hotel again. Or maybe Lisa's. Tell her this entire situation was becoming out of control. Her nerves were fraught with anxiety as she exited the main room into the marbled hallway again.

She thought he couldn't get any worse, that he couldn't reach a more detestable point. But, he had managed to surprise her, once again. No one was around and she ran as fast as she could towards the exit. It was soaking wet with pouring rain outside, and she could smell the damp earth and grass as the cool air hit her. She rushed to the end of the car park, but didn't have time to stop and think where she was going before she felt his hands on her. It took all she had not to yell at him with all her frustration in a terrific outpour. If there was any way to get through to him, and not let him predict her like a fortune teller with a glass ball, it was to remain calm.

She let him turn her around, and almost let go of her again. He had both of his arms around her tightly, ready for her to struggle, but when she gave me no such thing, he let go immediately, almost as if he was burnt by her. She was no longer satisfied or enlightened by whatever meaningless affection or words he might possibly bestow on her. At one point she might have considered liking him, longing something from him that he is incapable of giving. She was in a desperate state. No friends. Her family were angry with her. God knows if her grandparents knew, but knowing her mother they probably didn't. She rarely saw any of her other family, most on her mother's side, which she disliked. How she longed for her grandmother, her father's mother.

Thinking back to him, he had never been consistent in his treatment of her, yet he had been consistent with his coldness. And all her shortcomings made her pay double for her sins. He made her feel weak, yet there was no one she could turn to for comfort anymore. She might have had that little clique in school, the everyday friends she could pretend to be happy with. The University friends whom she always got drunk with, or used with them. She could turn to her lousy boyfriend, her immature boyfriend who sat in front of the telly most days with a beer in his hand. Her old best friend had betrayed her, went out with him as soon as he broke it off. Left her heart trampled in the mud, and she had been unable to pick it up again. Just by looking at her elder housemate, there was something horribly twisted about him. He might appear normal from the outside, but his sharp incisive gaze, calculating words and withered hands spoke enough about him.

"Why don't you return to your meeting," she spat at him, but with a cool, calm voice. Her eyes did not waver from his. She was seething with rage; it took every inch of her body not to lash out at him, to rip the hair from his head, to bash his face in until it bled copiously, to strangle him with his own tie. He was making her paranoid, each time she thought back to his meeting now, to that horrible psychological term meaning false pregnancy, she wondered if she really was just delusional. His eyes, moved very quickly between hers, as if there was a ticking going behind them. A bomb was about to explode any moment.

"Do you not feel that it describes your situation most accurately?" he began at her, with a soft, raspy tone. The wind was blowing heavy rain into both of them. There were pearls of rain all over the lenses of his frames. His straggly dark hair was blown into his face, and as he lifted an arm to brush it away impatiently, she saw something strapped to his wrist, on his right bandaged hand. The tears poured out of her eyes, but thankfully it rained so hard, he would be unable to distinguish the difference.

"You little, mean-minded worm," was all that came out of her mouth.

"Yet, how it all matches up. It is clear, Grace. You are suffering from these delusions." He had to raise his voice above the harsh howling of the wind, and it sounded terrifying in the dark. No one else was around to hear them, or see them. She saw the harsh wind ruffle the trees in the background, the branches moving up and down, the leaves clinging and fluttering. Occasionally one leaf was lost, and swirled away into the darkness.

"I can go straight to the midwife, I can get a scan. I can get a proper test. I can prove you wrong," she shouted at him over the loud wind. The rain in the wind stung her cheeks, and her fingers felt stiff and numb from the cold.

"Haven't you felt it? That need to be close to someone? You chose me since you had no one else. Did you want me to be the good father? Is that why you fabricated such an idea? Romance Grace; it's the only way to distinguish people from animals. You so desperately want a normal life. I am not the man, my dear. I am not the man."

Her rage was over-boiling, she wanted to hit him. She had never felt the need to smack anyone, hurt anyone physically in her life, but with him, it was a horrible need, a horrible kind of feeling. She wanted him to feel pain.

"You are denying sleeping with me?" she yelled at him. He was satisfied, he was finally getting to her, he could see the tears that rolled down her cheeks.

"I'd never deny such a thing," he leered at her. "Yet you can't remember." He gave her that smirk, that infuriating smirk.

She was so bewildered, standing there, trying to understand him, seeing his pale eyes in the dark, the only thing that was bright around them, save the amber-coloured lighting coming from the streetlamps. She raised her hand to slap him as hard as she could, making sure it would be a slap he'd never forget. But he seemed to expect it and caught her wrist almost immediately. He held it in an iron grip and pulled her close to him. She was unable to bear his touch and tried to wriggle away from him, but if she did, it would be easy for him to snap the bones in her wrist.

"I'll give you a run for your money if you want to spar with me, Grace. I know just how much you dislike my touch, how you resent my behaviour," he seethes at her. She was shocked; she thought he would be sarky with her, try and make her feel worthless while he still kept that sneer on his face. "How you go sneaking behind my back. I know what you've been doing. You presume me to be ignorant. Sneaking into my office. I can sense your mere presence. How you change my bandages, fawning sympathy or concern, but really you're poking your nose into business that does not concern you."

She gave him a long stare, as he glanced back at her. He seemed gratified by something, despite the cool, anger in his eyes. It was calculating. She swallowed a large lump in her throat. It was her turn to smirk at him.

"Oh, go drink your ego-driven feast, you self-absorbed, insufferable miserable twat! Only a man with a weak constitution and something to compensate for would accuse me of such ridiculous delusions. How could I, be delusional? I have no history of mental illness!"

He wasn't letting go of her, the more she came back with an answer to him. He didn't like people standing up to him; she reckoned rarely anyone did so. She was almost proud of herself. Then he leant back, satisfied, and let go of her sore wrist. He had been angered, badly, for a brief moment, but now he had no interest in intimidating her any more than he had done so. Her words and her manner had angered him so far, he was tempted to release his toxin into her, his new first batch.

It had become that intense. Usually it would get so far he'd just want to bash her head in, or twist her self-esteem into a whimpering pile. He wanted her to be the first one to experience his first batch. His mind tells him to be patient, something he simultaneously was very good and very poor at. _Be patient, Johnny, be patient… _

She turned on her heel, not wanting to look at him for a moment longer. She almost gave him a chance, she almost longed for him…How she might have considered, for a mere fraction of a second, that she had an odd kind of feeling for him….How utterly ridiculous she was! How stupid to think he would be trustworthy. She had to move out; she didn't want to spend her degree with him. She wanted a new start, right at the beginning, but it had all fallen down from there. She wasn't how much more she could take of him. She needed reality back in her life again; she needed her studies, her lecturers, the bumbling of the campus, her father's moods, her mother's jabbering and Lisa's good humour.

His words got to her, began to sneak their way under her skin. She kept walking, trying to be rational, trying to get her mind together.


	15. Anguish

**AN; **Hello, dears. Hope you are all well. I apologise profusely to those (and I thank you, very, very much) who have read and reviewed etc, for a very late update. Again I could list you many excuses, (of which there are a few) but I didn't want to rush and then give you a pile of turd instead. So, enjoy. I've made it extra long, just as a peace offering/apology present.

And thank you millions for sticking with this too (I'm honestly, honestly flattered.) Jonathan Crane is a very difficult character to write (and yes, referring to Scarecrow as well, they are one person, I don't like to conform to that split personality idea) and keep him as Crane and not some sexual pervert/I'm just a misunderstood guy/Joker-esque psychopath tendencies/lovesick puppy kind. I'm putting him in situations which he would not dream of. Basically I'm trying to make his life difficult, Grace's difficult and mine simultaneously. Ha, ha, ha.

**Disclaimer; Just to remind everyone that I do not own anything to do with the Batman Universe and that I am writing purely for my own and others enjoyment. If you don't agree with that, well you must be very boring. **

Article words kindly referred to and borrowed from 'The Batman Files' by Matthew Manning. I almost thought of putting a proper reference because I'm a total nerd and like essays and studying and**….**

**Language warning. Upsetting theme warning. It's an M-rated story, but thought I'd refresh your minds/prepare you. It's quite an intense chapter, and time moves ahead quite a bit, so try to be patient with it. I mega-appreciate all feedback :-)  
**

* * *

_Anguish _

Some time had passed. She had several phone calls from her father, and often she would ring him up herself. The sound of his plain-speaking voice brought a relief to her, a wave of calm. She desperately wanted to go home for Christmas, but she had the feeling it was not time to go back. Yet the prospect of staying in Feston for the holidays with Jonathan Crane was the worst outlook ever, especially as she was still pregnant. Yes still pregnant, despite his accusations a month earlier. Her father said her grandparents would be happy to have her on Boxing Day and perhaps he would meet her in York when he was off work on the twenty-seventh. Her mother had been ill for quite some time, but she had desperately absorbed herself into her work with the local church. Grace found it odd, knowing that the power of forgiveness was one of her mother's greatest things she had ever taught, had seemed to waver a bit. Her mother in some ways was naïve, always expecting the best out of people and then being disappointed terribly by them.

Grace found it hard to believe her mother would ever be the same with her again. It brought tears to her eyes. It was the day after she bought herself a new bicycle, a Raleigh with a mint green finish, a chain guard and a plastic basket, made to look like wicker. She had got it for just less than three hundred pounds, and had spent at least two days riding around on it, even in the pouring rain. It gave her a sense of freedom and peace as she zoomed through the streets of the Yorkshire town.  
She avoided the main streets that were full of traffic and occasionally took long cycles in the countryside, when the weather would allow it. It grew painfully cold and eventually she bought herself a new coat. Woollen, with a good hood. It fit her more snugly than the previous and was much warmer. She thanked herself for saving up so much money over the past three years. It was even better that she had the job at the fabric shop which she used to pay for her Tesco shops.

The people she worked with were amiable, and more often than not she was more than glad to chat to people who seemed very real. She felt happy and confident with the breeze running past her as she cycled through town on her Raleigh. Often she stood on the pedals with her bum off the seat, as she zoomed down a steep hill. And when she had to come to a stop often she'd stand with her left foot on the pedal while she swung her right over to meet her left, just like the postmen always used to do.

That was her only escape, however. Her anxiety came and went, whenever she saw him, it seemed to rise at first, and when she had hardly seen him in several weeks it nearly went away. It was a full time job when her addiction had been around, though. She began to forget how nasty he could be, but would never forget what he had said to her. In the week after he told her she had delusions of a pregnancy, she was absolutely convinced that he had been right. That her mind had been somehow poisoned by the amounts of heroin she had taken. But then she realised that she would be letting him win. So the best thing was to pretend he was not living in the house; that he was out of her life. He seemed hardly to be around the house these days either, when it finally reached January.  
He was always so busy and she knew he always arrived home late, sometimes eleven, sometimes one in the morning, because the house walls were thin and she heard the front door as clear as a bell. In the middle of the night, she would lay awake and think about her baby. She felt it was a girl. She thought of the countless things she would name the baby. What the baby girl would grow up to be, whether she would be a good person.

If the baby was a good person, if she knew that in her heart, she would want to keep it. And that somehow Jonathan Crane would be out of her life, out of the country, and wouldn't try to ruin it for her. Make her give it up for adoption. Or worse, kill it. In that single month, from the end of November to the beginning of January, she had developed a case of insomnia, and hearing the creaks of the house, so had he.

She heard him in his room, until five in the morning. And that was when he got up, she heard him in the bathroom, in the kitchen, and then he would be out of the house. Sometimes he would disappear for days at a time. Occasionally, she'd spot him on campus. His hair was dishevelled, his glasses needed pushing up. His cheeks were sunken in more than usual and he seemed lankier than ever.

If there was anything she could possibly forgive, it was his pride. But then again, he had tried to degrade hers. At first it had worked, and then it quickly went as it had come. Especially when she had not seen him for weeks on end. Still, she did not hear much from him or of him for several weeks, which caused her to think very hard about her life, and what she was going to do. However, she sat there, one night, in late December, after Christmas, unable to do anything about it. She was frightened, alone. She did not know about pregnancy, apart from the very basic facts. She wasn't even sure who she needed to call, specifically.

She had no desire to walk into the campus surgery and explain her situation. Even if all information was strictly confidential and there was no way any other student could find out, she was cautious all the same. Dina could be in there, with all her Criminology friends. How desperately she wanted to talk to her mother about it, or her father. But she knew it would be crippling news to them. There was no point, as she was giving it away, no matter how hard it would be when she'd give birth. It was on a rainy Sunday, when she'd spent the entire day in bed, and the entire night up, unable to sleep. Usually when she was unable to sleep, she'd sit in front of the television in the living room. Since she had given it a spring cleaning, it didn't carry that musty eeriness as much anymore, like something vaguely resembling a house in an old 1970s horror film, hoarding rotting corpses. She had phoned the landlord briefly to find out about the television, and he said the previous tenants had paid for another license for another year, but moved out unexpectedly.

She guessed Jonathan Crane must either be in his first year of his PhD, or he had moved house. She had never asked him how many years he'd been studying for this degree, or how many years the course was. She knew most PhD's were a maximum of three years, six years if it was part time. Her Masters course only lasted a year. This worried her, since time was closing in.

The doorbell rang unexpectedly on that rainy day, and she trooped down the stairs. Grace Gilmartin, to say at least, had been feeling no less than very numb. Her terror of sorting out her pregnancy rooted her to a spot in her room; her bed. She proceeded to do all pieces of her new art project; a study of colour, stemming from her passion of Van Gogh and Monet. It wasn't very original, but some of her pieces had astounding colour, one that Professor Heather Lugh herself had never seen. Grace's room was littered with a flurry of charcoal sketchings of bodies, pencil drawings of small birds and wildflowers, and large canvas paintings of colour, lots of colour that was unimaginable. You had to see it to believe it.  
Her room had become very messy in the space of a month, but it was somewhere she was happy to reside in, away from the world. She accepted her terrible loneliness, yet she could not accept the baby that sat inside her. Part of her believed Crane, that she was slowly losing her mind. That her great loneliness caused her mind to create something as complicated but wonderful as a baby. She trailed down the stairs with a grey sunken face, stinking to high heaven and a bird's nest that was her mousy brown hair. Even the small dark dots that floated in the murky brown of her irises had disappeared. It was the only beauty she possessed, and it had vanished.

When she opened the door, the hinges groaning at the impact, her mouth fell open. In front of her, was a very plain looking Lisa. Her hair had been cut, shoulder-length, and it was flat, as if she had ironed it. She wore skinny jeans and a large hoodie with 'University of Feston' on the front. She had her hobo bag at the side, with all its hippy, left-wing, feminist badges on the sides. Grace saw a packet of cigarettes stick out the top of her jeans. Grace didn't say anything; she just stared at her friend, who hadn't been such a great friend. Then Lisa did something that astounded her. She flung herself into her, and wrapped her long arms around Grace's little rotund body. She squeezed tightly, almost squeezing all the air out of Grace.

"I'm so, so sorry," was the first thing that came out of her mouth when she finally let go of Grace. Grace had to regain a few breaths, either from shock or the tight embrace she did not know, but she feigned a small smile and let Lisa step in. She almost had half the heart not to. All Lisa's anger and words came flooding back in her head. She turned away and walked Lisa to the kitchen. She mechanically filled the kettle up and reached into her cupboard to fetch a couple of mugs. There were a few signals that Jonathan had been around previously; little coffee grains on the surface of the counter. For the past few weeks when he was hardly around she had taken care to look into his cupboard. She no longer played those fun-loving pranks on him. Those were the days, when she hardly knew him.

He had barely anything in his cupboard, apart from a bag of coffee, filter papers for the coffee, and a load of bread that looked like it was going to go hard or green within a few days. Lisa didn't have the audacity to even mention Crane's name, and Grace couldn't help but notice the way her eyes occasionally flicked down to her abdomen. It caused her to become slightly irritated. She made the tea just as Lisa liked it, three sugars and a small splash of milk. The tea was cheap and had been brewed for too long, so little brown flecks floated on the surface.

She gave herself a large dollop of milk and they both went up to her room. Even Grace, upon entering her room, could smell the neglect in there, mixed with linseed oil and drying oil paint. It smelt like a room that had not seen light for a while, or had not been aired properly. She could smell her long days spent in her pyjamas in there; musty, slept-in clothes that only held a tiny snatch of detergent. So it had been washed, just not for a long time.

Grace climbed under the duvet and Lisa sat on the end of the bed, cautiously. She saw how Lisa's badly bitten nails clutched the steaming mug of tea gingerly. They were not painted.

It was unusual. Lisa seemed to have grown shrunken and pale just like Grace had done in the last month. Grace wasn't sure what to say. She had been in the middle of watching some American drama set in the capital, and her mind was too numb and distracted to think of much else. With Crane hardly around, she had learned to relax. Despite the looming pregnancy, she hardly thought about him, she almost formed a kind of mental block. She wasn't sure what to do; hardly any of her thoughts had been wasted on it. His words kept running freely around in her mind. He was such a bastard. Lisa pulled something, a large brightly coloured leaflet from her hobo bag and shuffled up closer to Grace.

"I'm gonna help you, Gracie. I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am," she spoke, and handed Grace the leaflet. Grace took the leaflet gingerly, turning it over and over in her hands. An NHS pregnancy leaflet. Antenatal care, it said in bold, but soft letters on the front. Despite the bright colours, it seemed promising, helpful. Grace felt a wave of emotion, like a curling wave in the ocean, swarm over her. She had to bite her lip hard, in order not to cry. She had been very lonely these past few weeks. Lisa interrupted her thoughts again.

"Phone up the GP. Get an appointment. Then you'll be able to see the midwife and explain your situation," Lisa spoke. Grace drifted back to her thoughts. She was at home during the summer in her teenage years, when she still lived with her parents consistently. She trailed her friends home on Tuesday and Friday nights. Never close friends, just friends she drank with, to feel liked with, to feel popular with. She had checked her weight the other day; she weighed approximately twenty pounds more than when she started University those few months ago. She felt like no one loved her and she loved no one. She took to smoking out of her bedroom window, and wished she could follow the spend cigarette ends down to the grass of the garden below. Like an ending, following the spent ends down to an ending.

Her insomnia had shot her sleeping cycle down to pieces. She was unaware and aware simultaneously that in the short few weeks her idle anxiety had grown, and had become its own creature. She held her acrylic nails to her face, digging them into her face, calling herself a bitch. He is right, you are delusional. If he wasn't you're still a bitch anyway. I will stop being a bad person. She felt like she had to ink it down in biro, like a commandment. A single commandment. Every time she sat in the living room, watching daytime television snuggled in her dressing gown, while sketching. The wallpaper was a creamy yellow, speckled with little swirls, vintage inspired patterns.  
It drew her into a sense of madness. She sat there, growing anxious, and felt like her reality had been slowly crumbling away, piece by piece. She let a couple of tears slip out, and her view was then blinded by Lisa's blonde hair, which seemed to have lost some of its vibrancy. They sat there for a few minutes or more, while Grace silently cried into the shoulder of her friend. When Lisa eventually pulled away, there was a great dark patch where her tears stained the top of the hoodie. Lisa couldn't help but smile.

"I just…I got scared for you. I knew what kind of a bastard he is, and the fact that you-" Grace cut her off quickly.

"Its fine, Lisa. It's over now." Lisa fiddled with a ring on her third finger on her right hand. She seemed sheepish in all of a sudden.

"Dina has taken to hanging around our house quite a bit," she added, wary of Grace's reaction. Grace didn't really give one, just barely shrugged. Lisa smiled.

"Not that I've taken a liking to that cow. Haven't seen her in a while anyway," she mentioned, and both girls giggled slightly. Lisa asked about Grace's Christmas and whether she told her parents. Grace responded quite mechanically. The questions were tough, and seemed painful to answer. She had decided within twenty four hours of knowing she was pregnant she would never tell her parents. She would not keep the baby; she was going to give it up for adoption. Lisa seemed relieved, and squeezed her hand. She got out a cigarette and lit it. She blew the smoke out calmly and gave Grace a small little smile.

"This'll kick him off. I'd love to see it," she said. Her voice was very hoarse, hoarser than usual. She sounded like she smoked more than twenty a day.

"He's never around anymore," came Grace's reply. She wasn't sure if she felt any better seeing Lisa. It felt like they hadn't spent a few weeks apart, but at the same time, something definitely had been spoiled. Lisa blew out a thin line of smoke.  
"That's cos you scared him off," she said, fury in her voice. Grace stared steadily at her friend. Lisa took a slow glance all around the room, in particular at the paintings, nodding her head unknowingly at them, approving of them.  
"He's been a complete arsehole about it," muttered Grace. Then she went over her words. Arsehole didn't really cover what he was like. Arsehole made him out to be an immature, officious idiot, nothing more. "No, he's been utterly cold, utterly condescending and accusing me of being delusional." Lisa snapped her head around to face Grace, the cigarette drooping from her fingers.

"The absolute fu…." Grace shook her head, as if to tell her cursing him to oblivion was a useless endeavour.

The girls chatted some more, and eventually Grace began to become more energised, a wonderful effect that Lisa had on her. Her no-nonsense attitude and get up and go ethic seemed to rub off on her very easily, and in that moment, she realised she had been moping far too much. She had built herself a safe little cocoon of self-pity that had lasted for these weeks. The exhaustion and lack of effort had cost her precious time. Lisa asked her about the Christmas holidays and she miserably replied that her father had spoken to her on that day, and that her presents from them had been sent up there. He told her that her mother was going to speak to her soon. He wasn't sure when.

It lifted Grace's spirits a little, but the fact that her mother had refused to speak to her daughter for at least three months was somewhat disheartening. Especially as they had been quite close before. Grace had travelled to Wales the day before Christmas Day to see her grandparents, and they had been delighted to see her. She loved them, but only as her mother's parents. They didn't quite match up to her Grammy, on her father's side. It was terrible of her to think so, but that was the way she felt. Her mother's parents were rather reserved, traditional Catholics. Even so, she had enjoyed herself. The day after, Christmas Day, she opened her presents and cooked herself a nice meal with turkey and cranberry sauce, and many vegetables. She bought two bottles of wine and became horrendously drunk in front of the television in the newly cleaned living room.

Lisa had gone back to her parents' home in Caerphilly, Wales, and spent a rather tedious Christmas there. She had come back soon as possible, although spent a couple of days with Cormack, whose family resided somewhere near Birmingham. His family had moved from Dublin to England a couple of years ago. It had been Christmas and New Year that had made Grace realise her desperate loneliness. She had no future, she had the prospect of her pregnancy and she had a degree, soon to be two degrees that she didn't know what to do with. She was desperately unhappy. No longer did she speak to any of her old friends from school or her previous university.

They had been quite unbothered about staying in contact with her, and never made any effort. She was angry at first at their idleness and responded by not starting the conversations with them. And soon it drifted off into nothingness. She was hopelessly alone, with only her parents to really talk to. The two girls escaped out of the house and it was strange for Grace to breathe cold, cool January air again – she had been stuck inside the musty house for so long, she had lost track of the days. Christmas and New Year had taken what little confidence she had out of her. Now that Lisa was back, with her apology, a well needed one at that, Grace's spirits were revived somewhat, but she did not feel hugely better. The girls took to shopping in the town centre, and Grace bought a few new clothes.

They finished with a smoke and a coffee outside the nearest coffee shop. It was as if the weather had taken it out of them both. The girls were haggard and worn, yet their spirits had risen once more, now that they were together again. Grace could feel Lisa's great remorse at her behaviour even though the girl was too proud to speak it. The look in her hazel eyes was enough to let her know.

They had a couple of nights out that week, Cormack included, along with some of Lisa's housemates. Grace ignored Ben, her one-night stand, and they managed to get by fine. Dina once or twice bumped into them, but she too seemed rather worn. They were large grey circles under her eyelids and her cheeks were sucked in, as if you could easily cut yourself on her newly appeared cheekbones. Her beauty appeared hollower but it was still beauty all the same. Grace wondered where her gregarious spark had disappeared off to. She was glad to hear that Lisa no longer retained that sympathy with Dina. It was painful to hear during their last argument.

When she felt her friendship had mostly been mended with Lisa, Grace began to wonder what Crane was up to – whether he still lived with her, and whether he just never bothered with her anymore. Perhaps he had become bored by her, and moved onto someone else. Or he probably was very busy – after all, he was in the middle of a PhD. Every time the thought of him popped into her mind – which was more frequent than she dared to admit – her heart pained, clenching and unclenching. It was as if he had a hold on her heart, and she pondered that it sounded romantic. It was anything but. She kept thinking of the unborn thing inside of her body and his words that circled round her mind like children on a merry-go-round.

She knew he had been trying to unbalance her, to make her paranoid, just like he had been since she first moved in.

In her current state, it was difficult not to fall victim to his lies, to his thinly spun tale, to knock her off her feet. But deep down inside, she knew it was ridiculous, and she tried to hold onto that feeling. Eventually, her days melded into one. Lisa accompanied her to her first GP appointment, and she had been booked by the GP immediately to see a midwife. She had up to ten appointments, mostly with the midwife, sometimes with the GP to check up on her. She had various tests; urine samples, blood tests, checks on her weight and height….She had gained a stone within the past several months. It was all carefully planned.

As it was her first baby, it would be more appropriate if she had it in the hospital. She couldn't imagine giving birth to her and Crane's child in the middle of their grotty sitting room. The words struck her again and again.

_His child. Crane's unborn child. _

She had a written schedule and each time she gazed at it on a late night it unnerved her. Being pregnant made her feel unlike herself. It wasn't until her fifth appointment that she had her first scan, and that Crane's words had been washed down the drain. She kept a small scan photo of her little foetus under her pillow, for comfort.

Lisa was her only comfort, a shoulder to lean on when she was struggling to cope with the prospect of having a child, a child that she was going to give away immediately. The midwife was going to help her find a suitable family. They went through local advertisements in magazines, newspapers and on the internet. Yet each family she could not like, she could not trust. It was becoming harder to make a decision. There was so much information to take in. Leaflets and books about pregnancy began to litter her bookcase, and then the area surrounding her bed. Her room was forever untidy.

It only hurt her more, to think of what he had said, about his own unborn child. To tell her that she was delusional. It only made her angry, and with that, she grew fed up.

* * *

There was a specific night where she had holed herself up in her room for the fifth evening in a row. Darkness surrounded her, and she watched aimless telly shows on her laptop. Her mood was neutral; she was empty like a tin can and her heart had shrivelled up like a prune and rattled about in the emptiness. Lisa constantly texted her; asking whether she wanted to go out. She simply could not find the energy to go out, despite her great, terrible loneliness. It was eating away at her insides like a vulture. She kept thinking of all the old friends that she had and how they would scorn her silly lonely life. How it hadn't become any better; she might have come out of her addiction, but how she had spent three years as a cleaner. Then the next was made pregnant by a man who did nothing but try to manipulate her.

She felt his dislike of her had perhaps forced him into indifference, now that he hardly bothered to stay in the house for any specific reason. This sudden new behaviour and casual indifference did worry her, and she was curious enough as it was. His secretive trips to Port Talbot. His chemical burns, the last one in particular, which was horrifyingly putrid with blood and pus. All those beakers and chemicals in the back of his car, not to mention the odd smells that always radiated off him and his room. It was one morning after she had eaten her breakfast and had a cuppa.

She heard him leave the house around ten to nine in the morning. Bright and early, he had been up; he had always been a morning person.

She heard the distant chatter of birds. Grace rolled on some deodorant and shoved on a knitted jumper and her trustworthy jeans that were getting slightly tight now. Only slightly. As soon as she heard the door go, she exited her room, and waited for a good fifteen minutes. When she was convinced he was not coming back, she dragged out a paperclip from her pocket. For good measure, she also had a hair grip. Arriving at the end of the landing in front of his door, she painstakingly straightened out the rather large paperclip. It was a trick she had learnt from her ex-boyfriend, long ago, in her second year at University. It was difficult, and she had been out of practise. She didn't bother to check the handle to see if it was locked; she knew he locked it religiously, even when he went down to make a cup of coffee, although that was rare.

It took her about twenty minutes to get the door open, and by that time a fine film of sweat had gathered on her forehead.

Her hands were slippery and the small straightened-out piece of metal slipped in her hands. She tried the door. No use; her endeavours had been futile. Perhaps her skills had long worn down by now. Frustrated she gave his door a kick, and slumped against the cool wall. Grace breathed in and out of her nose steadily, her eyes drifting over the darkened hallway. The attic room. Her jaw stiffened.

Then – suddenly, the front door slammed, very loudly. He was in a foul mood. Her eyes widened in surprise and saw over the peeling wooden banister the top of his dark head. She heard him chuck his car keys onto the little hallway table and ascend the stairs almost immediately. Her breath caught in her throat. She backtracked into the bathroom and shut the door as quietly as she could.

Thinking quickly, Grace leant over the bathtub and flipped the shower switch on. The cold water shot straight out and rained down on the plastic surface of the tub. She kept her ear and a steady hand on the wooden door. He had not gone into his room; the hinges on his door gave a specific kind of creak. She heard him walk across the landing. He stopped abruptly, the floorboards groaning. She covered her panting with her left hand. Heart in her mouth, she put a hand in the shower, so the water splattered in different directions; therefore it sounded she was washing.

He began to ascend the next set of stairs, and frowning as she tried to listen in; Grace finally heard the attic door slam shut. Letting out a heaving sigh of relief, she left the shower running as she crept down to his room. The handle was still stone still.

There was no noise coming from upstairs, as she gazed up there.

She took a large breath and walked slowly towards the next staircase. It was tight and twisted slightly, and she was glad she had socks on, as she clung onto the wall in order not to trip. There was no banister to support her. The door was tightly shut and she suspected it was locked, but she had no intention of stepping inside the lion's second den. However, she spotted a large keyhole, large enough to see inside the room. There was a bit of space beside the entrance to the room, and she rested on her haunches carefully before pressing her left eye at the keyhole. It was a rather unadorned, large spacious room, with very little furniture. It was light and airy and the roof sloped. It would have been lighter, if he had drawn the blinds down so tightly.

It looked like it had been a bedroom, but whatever was left of the landlord's furniture had been neatly packed away into a corner. The room didn't have much insulation and she could feel a draught drift through the keyhole. The wind outside beat against the walls, howling away.

Crane's thin face was lit up by a rather rusty light that burned an amber-ish hue. Her first annoyance came; it was nothing like he described. She had an inkling he had been lying, but seeing it in person made the feelings come to light. However, these mere feelings of irritation sifted away as she watched what he was doing. He was stood facing her, behind an elongated metallic fold-up table. Its metal surface glinted slightly in the light. He was wearing a long white lab coat and his hands, for once, were cased in thick heavy-duty gloves. The entire scene was sinister to her, as she watched in on him. He lit a match and held it to the top of the Bunsen burner as he turned the knob at the end of the burner.

A crackling shot of blue flame appeared and its noise vibrated throughout the small room. From what she could see, he had about a dozen utensils spread out on the metal table in front of him. Directly behind him, she could see one window had been boarded up; one she had not spotted before. He was in the process of boarding up the windows, her mind repeated. Her eyes switched back to him when she saw movement.

Crane held a long, thin tube of liquid over the flame, held by tongs. When it was sufficiently warmed, he added a small dose of powered substance to the concoction. She hadn't a clue what it was. He had several brown glass bottles around him, and a smaller beaker directly in front of him. Crane then added a small dose of a brown liquid into this concoction. He went back to re-heating it. It bubbled furiously.  
Grace held her breath; the entire situation, she mused again, was not for the eyes of someone else. She could feel it. It was in secrecy he performed this. He was concentrating ever so hard; his glasses were misted up by the heat from the burner, the strands of his dark hair clung to his forehead. She sensed he was becoming slowly irritated by the incapacity the gloves gave him. He put his test tube in a clamp's arms, and threw them off irately. She heard them fall on the wooden floor on the other side of the room, softly. She watched the long bones in his hand go up and down underneath his skin.

His skin that now seemed to be permanently marked from his chemicals. He didn't seem to be finished however. Her mouth had been dry from being held open for so long, in shock.

He put down the test tube full of the solution into a rack, and appeared as if he was going to exit the room. Her heart leapt into her mouth. She tore down the stairs as quickly as she could and ran into the bathroom, switching off the shower.

Grace heard the attic door swing open, widely. She ran straight into her bedroom and locked it tight behind her, heart thumping. She wasn't sure if she was going to get any sleep, that night. That hadn't been the only thing that kept her awake at night, apart from the thoughts of her unborn child.

* * *

She had been on her last shift at the fabric shop. She no longer wanted to work there, and figured she was alright money wise for the time being. They said she was welcome to return, and she had used the excuse of her studies, to which most of them were understanding about.

It was a surprise, since many people had little patience for students, especially when concerned with local jobs. She had been tearing off various pieces of material for herself to use in her next art project – a large college using many materials to create an image of a chaffinch perching on a finger. It had been fairly quiet for the past few hours – as it always was in the late afternoon, before she finished at five. She had a couple of old ladies who came in and browsed, then bought. But that was it. When the next figure, tall and dark, came in, her mouth dropped open. She was the only one on the ground floor. They were short staffed at the moment, due to a couple of staff illnesses.

The busier floor, upstairs, was manned by two of her colleagues. She could hear them laughing hysterically about something.

Crane had been staring coldly at her, eyes plastered onto her figure. He was holding his briefcase as he ambled in. He saw her face register with shock, then confusion. He smiled pleasantly at her; it was pleasant as his pale, thin face could get. He put his briefcase down on the large, wide counter. Taped to the counter was a long measuring tape.  
She was in the middle of measuring two metres of a certain fabric when he plonked his seemingly light briefcase down in front of her. Grace rolled her eyes up to him and fixed him with a blasé stare, before ripping the light fabric off the roll. She took her time and folded it up before placing the roll vertically against the counter. He didn't have his glasses on, she noticed, straight away, and those pools of ice stared at her unblinkingly. She suppressed a great shiver. She saw his eyes rove over her face, hungrily.

"Tired, Grace?" Crane spoke in a rasp. She narrowed her eyes, but thought the better of it. She ignored him and measured out another piece of fabric. She looked at him briefly before ripping the fabric swiftly and forcefully. He barely moved an eyelid. She folded it diligently, and placed it beside her.

"And what brings you to a fabric shop," she began conversationally. She really had no desire to talk with him, to listen to his usual low voice that always dripped with disdain. "Can't imagine you make your own clothes." He just stood there, still as stone, almost awkwardly, aware of his own height. His eyes were sharp behind his glasses, and she could almost hear the ticking in his head, analysing her, trying to figure her out.  
"Actually I do require some fabric," he spoke, and she raised her eyebrows. Directly behind him were the brightest pink fabrics in the shop, neon, magenta, some with vibrant patterns. Grace bit the inside of her cheek, hard. She wiped her hands on her dark apron that was her staff uniform; she'd been marking all day with tailor's chalk. The next thing she found herself doing was fetching some terrible material that had hardly been used by any kind of customer whatsoever.

It was scratchy, badly manufactured material that had the appearance of burlap. He had her cut one metre of four different fabrics, and he barely analysed them. He pulled out an American Express card when she charged him, but shook her head, and tapped the obnoxious sign beside the till machine; 'We do NOT accept cards for payments under £15.'

She saw his nostrils flare, and she stood her ground. There had been worse customers, they often did the nostril flaring. With him, she felt at any moment he was a bomb, ticking away. One small incident would set him off. He raised his wrist, and she flinched a little. She thought she saw a ghost of a smile on his face, but she must have been imagining it. He pulled out a twenty pound note with his index and middle finger and held it in front of her. She carefully met his eyes the entire time and tapped the amount into the machine. Beep, beep, beep, the thing went. It processed the transaction and she heard the receipt being printed.

The till drawer flew open and she dug out his change rather clumsily. He had held his hand out already, and briefly touching his cold, clammy skin felt like it had sent an electrical charge through her arm.

He kept his eyes on her as he slipped out his wallet, a battered and worn old thing, and slipped his money into it. She saw he had lost weight, if that was possible. His cheekbones stuck out more than usual. And like her, he had slept very little. It seemed they both had a case of mild insomnia. He slipped his fabrics into his briefcase, carefully hiding the contents from her and left without a word, without a single glance. The door slammed behind him, and the cold January air drifted in like a ghost.

She pursed her lips and felt like crying, as she stroked her abdomen absentmindedly.

* * *

It was one night that brought them together, unexpectedly.

Grace had started to live her life rather like she was a ghost. She was here and there, but nothing felt like it had amounted to anything. And all the while the baby steadily grew inside her. The only thing that kept her going was her painting, and she was excelling her in her subject, for once. She was good before, she had always been good, but at her last University she had been lax. Lisa occasionally met up with her, but she often heard the late night drunken outings that she had missed and it left a cold empty feeling in her chest. She had not seen him again for a couple of weeks, until one strange night when she was sat on the sofa in the living room, eating a ready meal. She didn't have any lights on and had been sat on the sofa for the past few hours, crying on and off.

The January month was particularly bitter, but to save money both of them had never turned on the heating. He never spoke to her about the British Gas bills that came through the door. Her landlord said they needed to sort it between them, but oddly enough, Crane seemed to have taken care of the bills.

Luckily water was included in their rent, but British Gas charged them for electricity and gas. It caused a raised eyebrow from her, but perhaps because he was so aloof, he felt it better to pay it all off himself.  
Perhaps he had a lot of money hidden away. God knows. She had been snuggled up in two cardigans and one woollen blanket she had bought recently when the front door had slammed. It was around half past two in the morning. She was watching a dodgy late night film. She guessed he knew by now she had suffering from a bit of insomnia. She used to be so good at sleeping; she virtually could sleep in until three in the afternoon, maybe later. Maybe for a whole day. Now, it never came to her. She was like an excited, but frustrated child on Christmas Eve. Willing herself to sleep and it never worked anymore.

Grace heard him panting with exertion in the hallway, then hearing him shrug off his large woollen black coat and hang it up on the end of the banister. Her heart clenched, but thankfully it didn't start to pound. She turned around in her wide-eyed state and caught him looking at her through the gap between the door and the doorframe. She stared back, feeling a horrible fear compress at the bottom of her chest. He then ambled slowly into the living room, his eyes suddenly trained on the television.

It was an old 1970's horror film.

"Where've you been?" she asked, more curious than anything. He still had his scarf on, and held his black gloves in his left hand. She saw his Adam's apple bob up, then down in his thin neck. His eyes glided around the room, slowly.  
"I thought you didn't like this room," he spoke, thoughtfully. She shrugged, nonplussed. She became even more so, when he sat down, his bones clicking in their joints in the large armchair. They sat in that rather strange living room, without saying anything for a fair while. She watched the film, suddenly not taking any notice of him. She had a wine bottle on the coffee table, and had already three glasses. It was beginning to make her feel tired, as she lay there in the dark, looking at the television but not actually watching it. When she thought she was dangerously close to falling asleep, she saw him, sat very still, but with his eyes closed.

It was difficult to see because of the glint of the telly screen on his lenses, but there was something slack in his usual taut face. Little did she know he was still awake, but with his eyes closed.  
His hands were clasped together on his abdomen, as he rested his eyes. He hadn't really given her a thought in the last fortnight up until now, which was unusual, since she always irked him whenever she possibly could. He'd tried his best to stay away from her, having had enough. There was no point. Not until he had his mixture ready, which the final result was taking a while to make.

He had mastered a liquid form, but the gas was more difficult, especially with such limited facilities. His eyes swivelled over to her shrunken form, suddenly, and she flinched when she saw he was now staring at her. He had terrible dreams for the past few months, but other times she had featured in them. Sometimes they were pleasant, satisfying ones; he'd strip her, douse her in chemicals, cut her belly open and scoop the baby out while she was under anaesthesia….she'd wake up, and then he could really tell her she was delusional, that she was slowly losing her mind. It was a very good idea, as he narrowed his eyes at her, analysing. Out of the blue, her low voice from having smoked too much over the years, vibrated across the cool air of the room, asking him something. He loosened his tie and snapped out of it.

"Would you like a glass of wine?" She had offered him wine. He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes tiredly. He put them away in the inner pocket of his sports coat. Even under his thickest jumper was he still cold; but that was always the way.

"Shouldn't you be refraining from alcohol?" he asked her wryly. She tilted her head towards him mockingly.

"Oh, but I'm delusional, so it doesn't matter, does it?" she bit back. She saw his jaw clamp down in irritation. He was still for a moment, before rising out of the chair, and her heart leapt forward a few paces. He shrugged out of his sports coat, loosened his tie and poured himself a glass of wine. She wasn't sure why she had brought two wine glasses with her into the room. She had half expected Lisa to come around, but then the girl wouldn't let her drink the wine. The room was awfully dark now, and his tall, lithe figure above her was somewhat unsettling. She always had that feeling around him he was going to suddenly burst out. Like he'd pull a knife on her, or strangle her or….

She heard the wine glug out of the bottle as he poured himself half a glass. She saw he glanced briefly at the label before he poured it. The headlights from cars outside passed through the curtains and were reflected on the ceiling, moving quickly as the vehicles moved by. He wasn't sure himself why he accepted her glass of wine, but he was curious at her offering and wondered what he'd get out of it if he accepted. Nothing, it seemed.

She barely blinked and tried to avoid looking at him. Her hands were clasped together tightly. He had aimed to go back either into his room or the attic room, no longer having the desire to be in the same room with her. For some reason she made him feel all sorts of feelings ranging from dangerous to confusing and he did not like it.

He was the Master of Fear. As if he had time for petty emotions. And then something completely and utterly stupid had happened. He did not realise how long her blanket was, due to the dark, and being so absorbed in his own thoughts.  
He should have kept his glasses on. The toe of his shoe was caught in the blanket and twisted as he attempted to move back to his seat.

Crane toppled over and subsequently spilled his wine glass all over Grace, henceforth soaking her. He had nothing to grab onto and fell straight down onto the ground beside her. He almost felt his cheeks rise with the sudden temperature. He abruptly heard a great roar of laughter. How impertinent! He tired to get up, but his damned shoe was still entangled in her ridiculous blanket. How long was the goddamned thing?! When Crane was on his knees, he caught a glimpse of her soaked head. The wine had engulfed her hair completely. He could smell it wafting off her. Before he could gather himself and storm out of the room, she leaned over, and pecked him on the cheek. His cheek was slightly rough with stubble. She drew back, very soon aware of what she had done, and her eyes widened with horror. Her fingers covered her mouth, and her head shook a little in denial.

"I'm sorry," she spoke with an abashed whisper. "It must be the wi-"

"The wine," he finished for her. He looked at her as if she was a very interesting insect who had just done a tango. An act of desperation, he mused. He had seen how much of the wine bottle she had drunk over the course of the evening. She was just as alone as he was, and he felt strangely satisfied by this. Yet he was used to his solidarity, and while she was, she had never become used to it. He'd been alone since his despicable mother gave birth to him.

"I don't know what came over me," Grace whispered yet again, seeing his face. She appeared ridiculous with her dripping wine-soaked hair and disgusted with herself simultaneously. She leaned over to her right and switched lamp on, but regretted it instantly. Seeing him bathed in amber light made her realise all the more what a stupid, silly thing she had done. This was the man who was currently the bane of her life!

To her utter bewilderment, Jonathan leant forward on his knees, and raised himself up onto the sofa beside her. Due to his sudden weight, the material of the sofa dipped inwards towards him, and she was forced towards him unintentionally. Just as she was about to move away, very uncomfortable now with his proximity, he pressed his lips against hers. Softly, almost experimentally. He caressed her own lips, chapped, with his own, ever so softly, the softest he had been with her. She wasn't sure what came by it, knowing most certainly he did not mean this. She began to reciprocate, liking the way he kissed her. It was far better than before. It had been very unpleasant. It was harsh, forceful, and inexperienced. She wasn't sure if he had ever kissed a woman passionately before, but she highly doubted it.

As soon as she began to reciprocate, he pressed his lips into hers a little more, and his hand grazed hers as he leaned forward.  
His smallest finger rubbed up and down the skin of the back of her hand tantalisingly, and all she could hear in the room was the sound of their lips parting and moving. Both of their teeth grazed together as he pressed into her mouth a little more, but not using his tongue at all. Without realising, she had put a hand on his leg, in all of a sudden. Almost immediately Crane drew away from her, and fixed her with a scowl.

Grace's heart nearly stopped. She realised that her head was spinning and she had been closer to him than she'd been for a while. She was not sure how long.

They stared at each other for a long while.  
Eventually Grace turned away, realising what a stupid mistake she had made, as all his torment and nastiness came back to her. She was playing on her lonely needs, and she reckoned he was too. He was a cold, private, restrained man. For him to do something as delicate as kiss her was something he was playing on. He was playing her so well, like their interactions were a game of chess. He was making her well up with his sudden affection and she knew it was all a joke, all pretence. She was drunk, and he wasn't.

Meanwhile, he was in an entirely different world.

He watched her closely as she chewed her lower lip and pretended to stare at the floor. He thought back to the time when he had kissed her for the first time, and how it had been totally unprecedented. How there was a discomfort, then and now. It was a yearning kind of discomfort. He was having strange urges, as if something primitive was happening within him.

He was bewildered, but tried to keep it at bay. He had never been attracted to Grace. He never sought pleasure from someone like her. He only gained pleasure from frightening people; it was what he lived for. He was cutting out the teenage years; they did not count for him. People did not touch him, they did not like to touch him.

Never had he been so close with anyone like he had been with her. Perhaps it was her defiance, or that raging fear just underneath her so-called solid exterior. He wasn't sure which. There was always a constant urge to expose her to his greatest weapon, but it had to be put on hold. He wanted to save his best yet for her; even so, the other batches didn't seem to be potent enough for the moment. He was losing it. His eyes drifted down to her stomach. One spray and both she and the foetus would no longer be a hindrance, a distraction, an annoyance. It was that simple. Or perhaps light a candle and leave the gas running in the sitting room and in the kitchen. Then again he would be without a place to live.

He drew a spindly finger up her arm. Grace did not notice him suddenly smirk with spite. To his utter surprise, she spoke something, as if she had been reading his mind.

"If you're about to pull me into another mind game, it won't work. Your pathetic attempt to tell me I was delusional was one." Crane stopped for a moment, swallowing in anger. _All in good time. _Moving slowly forward, invading her personal space again, he pressed his head gently against hers, breathing down her neck. It was taunting on the angle of her jaw line. To his utter amazement she did not flinch. Perhaps she was becoming immune to him.

His fingers seemed a bit unsettled, like they were desperate to do something. She nuzzled her face towards his, feeling his hot breath on hers. She was trembling, ever so slightly. It was like making a kiss with the devil. She looked into his eyes directly, and he had that creepy, faraway expression on his face. Underneath her blanket and her several layers of cardigans she had a flimsy wrap-a-round top. She wasn't sure quite what possessed her to do it, but she did it anyway.

She wanted to see how he would react. She shook it off before she could change her mind and the cold air of the room bit at her bare skin. What on earth was she thinking? The flimsy top, made out of cashmere that once belonged to her grandmother, pooled around her elbows. Grace stared at him owlishly, mouth parted a little, gauging his reaction, but he was doing his best to keep a straight face. As were still fairly close to each other and his eyes eventually drifted over her bare chest and abdomen. Her stomach fluttered. She so badly longed for him to touch her and hold her. For him to come across all softened, change his demeanour, suddenly say; 'I will help you with this child.' If he did, what would she do with a baby? At twenty-four? Youth was precious and it was a shame to waste it.

Crane predictably fixed her with a stony stare, eyes sharp behind his glasses, and he stood back up.

He left the room as quickly as he entered and left her to sit there, feeling bewildered. Tears stung at her eyes and angrily she pulled all her clothes back over her again. She was tempted to kick the coffee table, or chuck the wine bottle at the wall, but thought the better of it. She didn't want him to know her irritation, she had been humiliated enough.  
Grace curled herself up into a ball on the sofa, in front of the blaring television and slept a disturbed, depressed sleep.

* * *

Within a month of her pregnancy, after she had been on a few visits to the doctor and her midwife, she arranged to speak to an adoption agency. She had the time set up for a meeting, and let her weeks pass by rather uneventfully.

With the work piling up, she and Lisa didn't spend that much time together. Whenever Lisa had been free from working, she spent it with Cormack. It was a fortnight after speaking to the adoption company that she found a suitable couple. Crane she had not managed to see for three weeks, despite the fact she could hear him at night, and very early in the mornings. He never spent a minute in the house, and if he did, it was probably in his putrid, sinister lab room in the attic.

It hadn't escaped her attention what a curious smell had drifted from that particular room.

The couple who were adopting were an average couple from Lancaster. The mother had been unable to have children due to some unspecified problem. The husband was tall and already had started to go bald. He wore NHS prescription glasses and always wore a tie. He worked for some large business that sold furniture. The wife was plump, had fluffy blonde hair and a rather wide smile. She always seemed to wear fake nails and jeans that were too tight for her. What won Grace over was that they were uncharacteristically kind and as people they surprised her. The woman had taken a degree in English Language years ago, but ended up running her own small florist business, which went bust a few years ago. The husband had been a painter all his life.

The desperation for a child in their eyes was evident. All the other couples she felt already had children and seemed greedy. Quite a few were materialistic or arrogant young couples who looked like they were going to divorce in a few years. She met with the couple a few times. They always sat around the table in a very quaint Ikea-esque kitchen with expensive cooking utensils around them. Grace had been very quiet at first, as they talked, luckily they were very talkative. However, she liked them so much she visited them often, and became a pillar of support in her upcoming months.

* * *

There was one incident that brought her to Crane once more.

The weeks seemed to fly by, with little contact with her family, or Lisa, or even Crane. She fully engrossed herself in her art projects, and seemed to produce more artwork than she ever had done at her first University. She was going to make sure she would excel in her subject. She spent most of her time in the art studio. Even if it depressed her, she would make sure all her work would be up to standard.

Heather Lugh her professor seemed pleased that she was always there on time, painting well before the sessions started. Lisa had helped, but something definitely had been ruined between them, and Cormack certainly didn't help. Lisa seemed to spend all her free time with him or texting him. Grace wasn't sure if she knew her any more. Despite that, on a cool February afternoon, they relaxed with a pint in the student bar. It was fairly quiet, and Lisa sat with Grace, Cormack and three of her housemates, excluding Ben, to Grace's relief.

Grace had to lie through her teeth when she was questioned why she did not drink any alcohol. She had tried to disguise by getting Crabbie's ginger beer, but one astute housemate, Nadia, had pointed out why she wasn't drinking. Grace just covered it with antibiotics, the usual good excuse when you were a student and you couldn't drink. They all nodded in sympathy and she watched them become drunk around her. The other housemate, an Australian named Barney, was particularly friendly with Cormack and therefore Lisa, so that left Nadia to bond with Grace. Nate was off in the corner, with his head on the table, beer glass clutched loosely in his hand. Nadia smiled rather uncertainly at Grace, and stood a while analysing her that strangely reminded her of Crane's perceptiveness. Nadia had that rather Indian exotic-ness about her. She had thick, shiny black hair shoved back rather roughly into a little bun, but Grace's attention was more directed towards her large chocolate-brown eyes and skin. She had a large gold nose stud in her ear and earrings that nearly touched her shoulders.

"My parents would be tearing their hair out if they knew I was here," she spoke over the sudden noise of the karaoke. Some drunken bloke stumbled about on the stage, much to the amusement of his friends. Grace smiled at her comment, sipping slowly on her ginger beer. Nothing much had changed in the campus student bar since she had last left it. She wondered if the last time she had been at this bar, had it been that fateful night…which led to the growing thing in her now.

"What do you study?" she asked Nadia, who was preoccupied with gazing at the drunken boys trying to sing REO Speedwagon. Nadia slowly turned her gaze back to Grace, her lips forming the lyrics of the song.

"Oh, you don't wanna know," she spoke conversationally. "Law. All the pressure of my parents." There was a hidden sadness in her tone. Before Grace could begin to reply, Nadia had spoken once more. INXS began to play and another set of horrific singers began their karaoke.

"At least they won't marry me off for several years. My poor elder brother just scraped by. He was chosen an awful partner, and how he got out of it I don't know."

"If he's blessed with the knack, perhaps he can give you tips on it," joked Grace. Nadia laughed loudly at this.  
"Don't count on it," she joked. Nadia took a sip of her gin and orange juice, before cocking her head to look at Grace a bit better. She was quite a bit taller than Grace, and stared at her with a certain intensity.

"You're not really on antibiotics, are you?" she said softly. Her brown eyes were full of depth and somehow Grace trusted this down-to-earth girl in front of her. Grace bit her tongue, but she was never a very good liar. Nadia seemed to understand straight away, just by looking at Grace's crumpled face. She reached for Grace's hand and squeezed it tightly. Grace suddenly broke out in a smile.

"You know, you're brilliantly shrewd. You'd make a great lawyer," she teased. Nadia raised her dark, thick eyebrows.

"Don't push it," she said, smiling. The two girls chatted rather pleasantly after that. Nadia was a twenty-three year old undergraduate. To her parents' chagrin, she had taken a couple of gap years, but later improved their opinions by earning a lot of money in those two years and gaining some work experience. Grace was astounded how hard-working Nadia was, how pure she was, untainted by drugs, alcohol, anything of the sort. By creepy housemates. She soon discovered Nadia's passion for batik, and they got on like a house on fire furthermore. Nadia was careful, however. She did not proceed to ask Grace anything about the pregnancy or the father, but she could tell it was unwanted. Often when they fell silent and took in the now bustling student bar, she could see wavering tears in Grace's eyes. She tried to talk to Grace as much as she could, and soon they were singing along the karaoke themselves. Cormack and Lisa became horrendously drunk as usual. Grace looked at them, disgusted.

It was almost a relief to see how awful it looked, that it was pleasant to be on the other side of the fence for once. She was not a drunken emotional mess. With Nadia at her side, she began to feel happy once more, something she had not felt for a long, long time. However the feeling was quashed completely as she sat up at the bar. Nadia was in a conversation with one of her fellow Law undergraduates, and Grace carefully watched the student atmosphere around her.

Crane was suddenly beside her, and she had been unaware for some time, until she heard his low voice order a drink. Her eyes widened in dread, and saw how close he was stood next to her at the bar. His hair was slicked back, and he wore a dark sports coat over a light blue shirt. No tie, no sweater vest. He smiled coldly at her, and she trained her eyes between his eyes instead. She couldn't bear to look at his irises.

"Hello, Grace," he spoke gently. She huffed and made to slide off the bar stool, but she felt his long-fingered hand grasp her forearm tightly. His knuckles blanched as he clutched her forearm.

"Don't make a scene, we're in a public place," he spoke condescendingly. His eyes flicked briefly towards Nadia. Nadia was staring at him, with a hard expression. Grace tried to relax, seeing she didn't want to pique his psychoanalysis as usual. She leant against the bar and lifted herself lackadaisically up onto the stool, trying not to brush him by accident.  
"Any reason you're here, or are you just trying to socialise for once?" she spoke coldly, taking another sip of her ginger beer. She felt him take a long stare at her, watching her closely. Unfortunately Nadia seemed to be detained by this other student, who was talking nineteen to the dozen. He was watching her for a fair while, trying to unhinge her, trying to make her feel unsettled. Unfortunately for him she was all too used to it, despite the fact that his sudden appearance at the student bar was rather disconcerting. She realised in that moment, and felt, that he was obsessed with her, oddly enough.

"Why are you here?" she asked, honestly. She saw in her daydreaming he had ordered stout, and the cool glass was clutched in his long-fingered hand. Her eyes once more drifted over his skin. He answered without glancing at her, disdainfully studying the students all around them.

"A rendezvous with a fellow PhD student," Crane spoke sketchily. Grace eyed him for a while, wondering whether she believed him or not. Not that it mattered. Not that she should care what he was doing, but she was inexplicably drawn to him. It seems like both of them were two magnets always drawing to each other. She was desperate to talk about that night, that silly night where she had acted irrationally, as did he, although she ended up as the humiliated one. She was keen to know more about him, what made him into the cold person he was today.

She couldn't help but wonder what happened in his childhood. Was he bullied at school? She knew he had mentioned his grandmother before. Was she the one who had raised him? Was she cold and cynical like he was? It said on his passport when she discovered it in his car long ago he was originally from Georgia. Yet no distinctive drawl was detectable in his voice. She presumed he had gained his degrees from Gotham University, and had tried to rid his past life out.

"What was the other night about?" she suddenly blurted, and regretted it immediately. It was showing her weakness, her confusion, her desperate loneliness. He continued to stare at the other students for a while, before turning to look at her. There was a tiny smirk on his face.

"Well, well, well. You have acted predictably as usual, Grace Gilmartin," he replied, his infuriating smirk becoming wider. She realised how close they were standing next to each other, side by side at the bar. Nadia was completely drawn into an intense conversation with two or three other students now. Sometimes her head turned over to look at Grace, and she sent a nervous smile. Before Grace could retort, he cut straight across her, his voice low and smooth. She was beginning to tire of this.  
"Little Grace, who wouldn't let butter melt in her mouth," he mused with an arrogant smirk. She ignored his derogatory remark, and continued to drink her ginger beer. It sizzled pleasantly in her throat and left a good aftertaste, sour yet strangely satisfying on the tip of her tongue. She glanced at him. He was staring at her with a burning intensity.

"Did you have a cruel childhood? Were you bullied as a teenager? Because then I am sorry, for it has made you bitter," she spoke, quietly, almost sadly, even though she wasn't. If she knew the whole truth, she might be, if it was a sob story. But she'd doubt he'd ever tell her, ever let a show of weakness in front of her. Grace continued to watch the scene of the students, naturally, trying to present calmness in front him, that he did not unnerve her at all. She took a while to face him, seeing that he had been staring at her for several moments, probably with suppressed rage. Nadia had been swallowed up by the crowd.

"You are perceptive," he murmured softly when she swivelled her eyes to glance at him. Her eyes trailed over his handsome neck, thin, holding up a rather square jaw. Was he acknowledging her statement as true?  
"How far along are you?" he asked, rather suddenly, which took her off her guard. Despite the now loud music that was booming, she turned to him and frowned.

"What do you care? Isn't it a delusion?" she snapped at him. He smirked at her, keeping his eyes on her as he took a long sip of his stout.

"If I am the so-called father, creator of the abomination in your womb, that perhaps I have some control over what happens," he spoke so casually. Her heart clanged in her chest fiercely. As if he'd want to take control of the child! She saw he was gazing hard at Nadia. He seemed to have picked up on the girl's remarkable shrewdness, something that would rival his own. Then before she could retort something, probably something that was in its usual dry tone, which he had come to detest, he cut her off rather savagely.

"I do still wonder what you really fear. I have some of it worked out. Death, a rather specialised one, for you. Am I correct?" he spoke softly to her. He had a smile on his face but it was not a very nice one. He watched her jaw grit tightly, and she took a rather long sip of her ginger beer.

"Stop flattering yourself," she then snapped at him. She appeared exasperated with him, which made him leer at her. Seemed he was getting under her skin, at long, long last. He watched her with a famished expression on his face. "I will not be tormented any longer. Even by an emotional cripple." He burst out laughing at her.

"You have to admit it, Grace, you are afraid of me. There is a kind of power you hold over someone when you frighten them. At first I utilised it for revenge. Then it became wonderful, a power I could hold over those who were weak and despicable. And you're now afraid of how close I'm standing to you. It unnerves you," he breathed. She thought his voice nearly dripped with excitement. She frowned at his right hand, which was inside his pocket. She had a funny feeling he was clutching onto something in his pocket, tightly. She just had to rely on the fact that they were in a public place.

He couldn't harm her here. He was watching her carefully for a reaction, but she knew it was what he wanted, like giving a bone to a dog. She would not let him have that satisfaction, tired of playing his mind games. She could not deny that he scared her, in a way that no one had scared her before. But somehow, it was his pride and arrogance and those scars that let his cold mask go. Inside he was just as insecure as the rest of the people on the planet. She wanted to smirk at him, to let him know each of her thoughts. But she held it back, not wanting to cause a scene in this bar. Inside, she turned to glance at him for a while, seemingly knowing the contours of his face so well by now.

"I pity you, Jonathan," she spoke, almost sadly. "You've let whatever happened in your past turn you weak. You will never know fully of life because you have let it hinder you." She saw him contain himself well, but his unresponsive reaction was worrying. Then, he looked over his glasses at her, straight in the eyes, no lenses to hinder his plain gaze. He smiled; a sort of smile that did not crease the lines around the edges of his eyes, or lift the cheeks.

She saw Lisa suddenly stumbling through the crowds, laughing with her housemate Barney and her boyfriend. Grace hadn't realised it had become so rowdy in the time she had been talking to Crane. It was as if time had sped along while she was under his normal scrutiny. She felt him staring hard at Lisa, imagining his nose wrinkling. Lisa managed to spot Grace straight away, and called her name, quite loudly above the bobbing heads of the tipsy students. Grace's heart sank. She gave a small smile and waved her hand a little, giving Lisa unconsciously the signal to join her. Lisa hadn't noticed Crane standing stiffly until the last minute. She had stumbled upon the bar, arm in arm with Cormack, and some of her cider spilled out the top of her pint glass. It splattered straight down onto the wooden floor below and dotted Crane's shiny black shoes.

"Oh hey, Gracie! And Johnny boy! Long time no see! Hows it goin?" Lisa said in a very loud voice.

Grace slowly shook her head at Lisa when they both met eyes, but Lisa was too drunk to notice the subtle hint in Grace's face. The two boys were just as drunk as Lisa, and didn't seem to notice Grace's worried face and the rather sour look Crane was pulling. She saw his knuckles were blanched on holding his glass.  
"Where's all the fun, tonight guys?!" she spluttered, seeing she was getting no reaction from either Crane or Grace. Barney and Cormack looked at each other, and then back at Grace and Crane. It was a knowing look, one she did not like much, at all. It was the 'we know what you did' kind of look. Grace tried not to feel hot, to blush down to the roots of her hair.

"Are you two together?" Barney blurted, before anything more could be said or done. Grace was mortified, and wanted to drown in her non-alcoholic ginger beer. If only it was a barrel of cider and it would be quicker for her. Crane didn't say anything immediately to defend himself, but he gave all three students a rather unsavoury glare, his pale eyes widening for effect. Lisa saw Grace, and despite her intoxication, finally realised. But her answer was not to Grace's satisfaction. By the end, she wanted the ground to open up, and swallow her, never to release her.

"Oh no, no chance," she slurred, taking another large gulp of her Taffy Apple cider. "You see men like Johnny become predatory when they sense something in particular. I bet you've read 'The Game.' Johnny. Sad, little human being….you know what I've got to spend most of my time warding him off. Grace wants people to tell her she's wonderful and it's like bloody Snow White and the Huntsman in the forest…" Grace frowned at Lisa, in all of a sudden.  
"Oh, is that what you think this is all about? That I'm an insecure idiot who will go as far…" She thought the better of it when she glanced briefly at Barney and Cormack's tired, but bewildered faces. She felt she had enough of this tiresome night. She put down her now empty pint glass and picked her bag up.

She muttered a goodbye to them, feeling their rolling eyes on her back as she walked away.

She tried to erase Crane's words as best as she possibly could as she cycled home, in the approaching dark. She knew how he provoked her, everything that came out of his mouth was rubbish, and he was winding her up like a cog in the clockwork. Yet she wasn't sure of his intentions; she never had been. His unabashed curiosity about her fears and her vulnerability. His strange dealings in Wales and the making of peculiar potions in his room. His behaviour, above all. And his lack of connection to absolutely anyone.

* * *

January slipped into February, and then it was March before Grace Gilmartin had time to realise. Almost a month had passed without her seeing head or tail of Jonathan Crane, which was almost good but bad in other respects. He refused to speak to her if she did bump into him on campus which was very rare. He seemed to grow thinner by the day, but astoundingly he kept his suits sharp and pristine. It looked like he had taken some time out to afford new suits. She no longer saw the holed jumpers.

It took every ounce of her emotional strength to go through with the pregnancy every day. She had to buy more clothes, and sew a new waistband on her favourite pair of jeans. She had to buy a special maternity bra online which caused her a great deal of discomfort. She still swore off alcohol and hadn't a cigarette in several months. She had to smile to herself; she was doing well. But she wasn't sure about her mind, her emotional capacity. She spoke to her father occasionally, but there was no news from her mother. It left her heart weak and vacant like a rattling, empty cage.

She was getting to the point now where it felt uncomfortable to ride on her bike. Her ankles swelled and her back often ached, so that she spent time in the house completing her final project, which was due by the end of May, on the sofa. She had a ten thousand dissertation to write on her art project.

Grace tried to get through the days, but often it proved to be difficult. In the cold, lonely house, she often kept the lights on, and watched television endlessly. She didn't see Lisa very often anymore, and the girl did not show much of an interest in seeing her either. Lisa seemed less of the person she was when Grace had first met her. She was always drunk on nights out with her boyfriend and her new bunch of friends, which were her boyfriend's group.

She occasionally saw Nadia, which was hope in itself. Nadia was proving to be a good friend. Grace still kept up her appointments with her midwife and the doctor. She couldn't help but browse through the baby sections in the clothes shops when she was in town, shopping. She'd pick up a gorgeous dress for a girl, or absent-mindedly fiddle with a sunhat, a tiny sunhat, or a tiny pair of shoes for a boy.

She had developed a collection of scanned photos of her baby. She did not know the gender, and did not wish to. If she was going to give it away she did not want to know anything about it. But it was slowly breaking her. It occurred to her to show the scanned photos to Crane, but she knew it would be a useless endeavour. As if such a thing would interest him. She hardly saw him anymore. The months passed, and when she entered her sixth month, early May, she had managed with nights of being holed away in her bedroom, to finish her final art project and her mini-dissertation. She had finished her work in a month's advance. She had never done that before, had never been so organised.

She had been a lazy student since school. Her school grades never amounted higher than a B and several C's with added D's and E's. Grace often came to wonder why she still lived, what was the point of her life. She had reached so many low points, and her family hardly spoke to her. She had no friends, and was a disgrace in each and every way. The only thing that solely kept her going was her art, and even then she was not sure why. It helped cleanse herself of her emotions, kept a grip on reality that in no other ways could.

A job often helped, interacting with strangers daily was somehow curing for her. By the time the spring arrived, her belly had grown in so much that she could rest her forearms while she painted.

Most of her time was spent inside the stuffy cold house, just her, no sign of Crane anywhere. There was hardly any food in his cupboard and nothing in the fridge. She hardly saw any used coffee filters anymore or teaspoons with speckled coffee grains on the inside. In fact, it became so eerie, his absence, that she refused to sit in the dark for much longer.

* * *

It was during the afternoon, when she finally heaved herself upstairs, after a session of watching terrible daytime television. Her legs strained under her added weight, and she felt several kicks of the baby halfway through walking up the stairs. When she reached the top, she stood there, breathing for several minutes. She looked towards the bathroom, the toilet was calling again. She'd already peed around five times in that day.

By the time she had peed, washed her hands, she set her eyes on Jonathan Crane's door.

She would try his room, and then the attic room, which she was less than enthusiastic about. She couldn't help but glance at his door with a strange sense of both hatred and morbid longing. She unsheathed a small paperclip and straightened it out with her nimble fingers, which were stained from ink and paint. It took her a total of ten minutes to get the door unlocked, and by God she had done it this time. When she heard the familiar click in the door she wanted to jump for joy. The sweat had gathered on her forehead and stray wisps of her short, almost non-existent fringe stuck to her skin.

The heels of her feet ached. By the time she pushed open the door of his room, she caught the brief smell of must, mildew and neglect. There was the usual smell of chemicals that somehow she had become immune to, which worried her. She noticed it more now as she took a step up into his incredibly dark room. Her heart began to pound, and a small lump formed in her throat.

She pushed open the door slowly, until it was far open; probably the furthest it had opened on its hinges. The curtains, made out of old linen which had quite a number of holes in were shut tightly. She switched on the main light and immediately the room was bathed in an unnaturally amber-like glow. Grace took a while to stare at the room that belonged to him, her eyes owlishly swivelling around the place. It was rancid, and looked like it hadn't been lived in for a fair while. His bed was made, and there were no clothes anywhere to be found, apart from one black tie that was slung over the back of the chair that was at his desk.

Suddenly, staring at that chair, seeing the tie, she had a strange sense of déjà-vu.

Shaking her head, she continued to look at the room in astonishment. The carpet was filthy; there were stains, large dark splotches in several places. The light above her flickered. His desk was cluttered with tubes, test tubes, large and small beakers with liquids, and some appeared empty. He had numbered them, such as #213 to #220. His desk had few papers on it, full of chemical equations. She glanced at his scrawled handwriting. Taking control of her newly found situation, she rifled as much as she could through his room. Something large had been sat in the corner of the room and had been recently removed. There was dust floating in the air, it covered the window sill, the top of the bed frame, his bedside table. There was a small alarm clock, and his wrist watch. She opened his drawers. Nothing, except pieces of paper, again with his equations, with nothing else written. When she eventually found something that was worth reading, it was all in shorthand, something she could not read.

Frustrated, she slammed his drawers shut. Grace's eyes swivelled around the room slowly, hearing any door slams. She had shut his drawer so hard it had echoed throughout the small room. She took a peek through the chink in the curtains. There was mildew growing around the window frame and on the window sill. The window was fogged up, and outside she could see the bright, beautiful daylight. Their road was situated on top of a hill and she had a rather lovely view of Feston.

Shame he always had his curtains closed. Passing back through the room after looking out the window, disappointed, she carelessly tripped over the heavy blanket that was on top of a table in the furthest corner of the room, to the right of the window. The blanket was caught on the toe of her slipper and she tripped over, catching herself thankfully on the edge of his bed. The blanket fell to the ground, and she heard the curious tinkling of glass.

Enquiringly, she turned around to see something she hadn't expected at all. She might have expected to see more beakers and tubes full of bizarre liquid, but instead she found several lists, one that included names, and to the side of their names, apparent fears. She saw 'Dina Mackay' written somewhere near the bottom.  
Turning over the page, she saw her own name.

_Grace Gilmartin. Early-Mid twenties. Perhaps __thanatophobia__. Unsure. Has not been exposed yet. #214._

Her head spun back to his cluttered desk beside the door, and she spotted a large beaker, with nothing inside it. _#214. _There was something that quietly disturbed her about the lists more than anything she had seen to do with him. She glanced back to Dina's name. 'Exposed', was all it said. She saw a large, bold F next to her name. Was that a fail? Come to think of it, she had not seen Dina for over four months.

There would be a time where she would have bumped into the girl by now, seeing as Lisa spoke of her hanging around with her more often. But Grace had not seen anything of the girl. Her only deduction was that she probably moved back to her own country. Some foreign students only studied a semester at the University. But something was uncoiling in her gut, something like horror. She had to see what was upstairs, but she wasn't keen on the idea. Before she could move anywhere, there was a crinkling below her as she shuffled her feet somewhat. An entire wodge of papers, newspaper it sounded like, had come out from under the blanket. They were haphazardly folded and stuffed together.

Frowning, she leaned down with somewhat difficulty and picked them up, slowly. She blew her hair out of her face and studied them. They were dated several years ago, perhaps three or four at the most. She glanced at the title of the newspaper at the top centre of the page. _The Gotham Gazette. _There were several articles about some old prestigious University professor, going by the name of Bramowitz. She jadedly flicked through them, her nimble fingers picking at the delicately. The light flickered above her. Before she could let them flop down into the blanket again, she caught a bold headline;

_**Mysterious death of Professor Bramowitz bewilders GCPD.**_

She frowned deeply, her eyes cascading over the letters.

_Formerly long-tenured Professor of Psychology, Professor A. J. Bramowitz was found dead at approximately 5.13am on Wednesday 10__th__ September. He was found on East 76__th__ Street, opposite the esteemed Gotham University. It appeared he had fallen to his death from the East Business Block, one of the notable business centres within the city._

She saw a photograph of the University which Crane attended. It looked rather bleak. The main building was a worn, bleak 1960's building, structured loosely. There were few trees that dotted the grounds, and the abundance of students which littered the main entrance caused it to seem professional, but it appeared empty. The sky around the place was the greyest grey she had seen. It surprised. She didn't think a sky could get much greyer than the skies of the British Isles. The next photograph was of Bramowitz himself, a distinguished looking man with a white beard and who appeared to look over his glasses, straight at the camera. He had a kind of look that Crane carried.  
As if he could read each segment of you mind without batting an eyelash. She wasn't sure if he looked condescending or wise. She decided the former. The pages seemed crinkled as if they had been well read, been held in sweaty human hands several times. The next article caused her heart to clench in fear. She saw it was dated a few years ago from now.

_**Gotham University Professor Fires Handgun in Lecture **_

_Patrick Monech_

_Crime Correspondent _

GOTHAM UNIVERSITY –

_Protégé of Professor A. Bramowitz, the university's new esteemed psychology professor, Professor Jonathan Crane was recently dismissed from the school's academic staff for firing a loaded handgun in the middle of a lecture on Tuesday morning. According to Dean Nicholas Kinder, Crane was highly interested in the subject of fear and gave many lectures on the subject so much that students began to complain about the courses's highly specialised nature. _

_It was an undisputed decision made by the school's regents by removing Crane from the University. Crane recently was promoted by the school's Dean Nicholas Kinder after Bramowitz inexplicably fell to his death from the rooftop of the business block opposite the University earlier in the year. It was during one of Crane's lectures in fear that he demonstrated what he named 'the conditioned response to the fear of death.' During the course of his lecture, he brandished a loaded handgun, pointed it at a porcelain vase and fired, sending chards of the vase into the crowd and injuring a female student. _

_The injured student, who prefers not to be named, opted not to file charges, but the regents nonetheless dismissed Crane after holding a meeting. When briefly questioned by the press about his controversial teaching methods, Crane responded that 'Fear cannot be taught if it is not experienced firsthand. I am confident that someday the staff will agree with me.'_

Grace could not believe her eyes. She stared at the article for several moments, unable to think properly. It could be seemingly harmless; he was, after all, an esteemed educator, an intelligent man. He only wanted to teach his students in the best way he possibly could. But there was something horribly sinister about it, including Bramowitz's death. She glanced at the photograph of Crane, below the one of the University. His face was serious and he was dressed in a dark suit and tie. She shook an idea from her head quickly. He couldn't have murdered Bramowitz for the position…he couldn't have…But pushing him from a great height? It didn't seem at first like a murder. However, the next article intrigued her further.

**Further Deaths of GU's academic staff discovered**

_Four highly-influential academic staff, Dean Nicholas Kinder, Department Chair John Harrow, and associate professors Lesley Davison and Derek Hayder of Gotham University were found dead on Thursday morning in the psychology department's head office. According to the coroner's office, the men were found to have died from sudden cardiac arrest, all simultaneously._

It appears these suspicious deaths have been brought by a phenomenal shared feat, of which there is little evidence. One shred of proof which provokes the GCPD's Homicide Bureau's incomprehension is few pieces of straw and burlap, found at the scene of the deaths.

Frowning, she turned to the last couple of pages. One article was about Crane himself, a profile of his academic achievements. Obviously it had been placed in a University article shortly after his promotion to Professor of Psychology. She saw the specialist subjects noted were mostly to do with fear. She continued her perusing, until she came to a flimsy piece of paper that nearly disintegrated in her hands. It looked like it had seen a bit of rough and tumble. Apart from the printed words at the top of the crinkly brown paper, most of it was handwritten.

**GOTHAM CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT **

INCIDENT SUPPLEMENT #WR 900-2

Report Entered; 29/08/10 14:18:32

Witness name: Christopher Tutone

Address; 241, 67th West Street, Narrows, GC.

Reference to; alleged murderer of 5 GU academic staff. Masked felon - 'The Scarecrow.'

Case Number: 001649

She wasn't sure if she wanted to read on – but her eyes skimmed across the words, which ultimately frightened her all the more. She was not sure what to do with this information. The witness described a scene from his workplace down in the dockyards in a district of the city named the 'Narrows.' From his description, it sounded like a crime-ridden area, full of filth and depravity. He could hear a serious of high-pitched screams, coming from that of several men. The area he described was suddenly shrouded in a mysterious fog that made it impossible to breathe. There was a sudden outbreak of frenzied terror he described, and he was nearly trampled down by a bout of petrified, fleeing people. He abruptly feels like he is in a 'nightmare' as he was acutely put it. He was lying on the ground, not sure how he got there. One minute he was on his feet, doing his job, the next minute, he was on the ground with a grossly palpitating heart. He saw something move in the fog, a tall, dark figure, with the curious dishevelled appearance of a scarecrow. He could not see very clearly. He could spot white eyes in the dark, glowering at him.

Grace had more than enough, feeling thoroughly shaken. She unsheathed her mobile from her back pocket, in the hope of calling Nadia. Nadia might give her some insight, although Grace had not told Nadia the entire truth about her and Crane.

She clicked on her phone, and abruptly heard a creak. She span round, and saw Jonathan Crane's tall, lanky figure beside the door. Grace sucked in a frightened breath through the teeth, nearly jumping a mile in the air. Crane nodded his head at her.

"You let curiosity get the best of you," he remarked. Obviously, she retorted in her mind. She clutched the mobile tight in her hands. He was holding his briefcase. He looked rather smart, despite his thin face and hair that was now getting a bit messy over his head. He stared at her so intensely, that she nearly felt faint from the shock of seeing him so suddenly.

"Did you know it's rather rude to break into someone's room?" he began, taking a step closer, smiling at her. She was trying to control her breathing. He let his eyes wander over her figure, ever so slowly. It was a day where she hadn't bothered that much, jogging bottoms and a large t-shirt with _National Geographic_ printed in the top left hand corner. She hadn't realised up till now that she was shaking quite badly, and tried to straighten her knees and clutch the mobile tight in her hand. The baby kicked her slightly, and she craned her neck in discomfort. She licked her lips in nervousness, and he sensed it immediately. She hated his psychoanalysing. Crane had stepped closer towards her, and she smelt the rather curious smell of aftershave, a distinctly male smell. For once he didn't ooze of must, or chemicals. She swallowed slowly, keeping her eyes on him.

"Were you going to call someone? Answer me Grace," he spoke, with less of a gentle tone. She needed to stall for time. Instead, she blurted out her thoughts, stupidly.

"Why do you have my name written down? Am I some sort of experiment? You finished with little Dina, and now you've started with me?" She saw the tendons in his neck tighten, and he swallowed. Ever so slowly, he removed his glasses, and placed them inside his suit coat. He wore no sweater vest, and was dressed in black, as if he was going to a funeral. It made him appear all the creepier, daunting, and now that he had no glasses, the cold stare was worse than ever.

"I should get going," she spoke, and attempted to move past him. He took her forearm lightly, and snatched the mobile out of her hands quickly. It was quick and his movements so lithe, she had no time to react properly. He smashed the phone onto the ground, shocking her, and stamped it as hard as he could with the heel of his shoe. Then, he began to talk. He was an oddly chatty fellow for someone who was so menacing. He liked to stall for time, dance around his victims, tease them before he gave them what he concocted, and in return they gave him something precious. Grace just stared at him, rage on her face, but confident rage. She was assured of the fact he would not hurt her; after all, it was his child in her….

"You see Grace, I don't like it when people find their way purposely into my room and go through my stuff," he spoke darkly, and flipped the switches of his briefcase open, setting it on the floor.

"Likewise," she snapped back. She did not want to know, for some reason, what was in the briefcase. While he was bent down over his briefcase, she took her chances and walked straight past him as quickly as her swollen ankles would let her. He took her forearm tightly, tighter this time, so his nails dug into her skin. She yelped with surprise and he pulled her around to face him. Her nose nearly collided with his chest.

She saw he had a syringe in his hand, and that ths time, all pretence, all smirks and teasing was gone from his face. It was an unemotional mask, full of antipathy that plastered it. He pressed the plunger a little, so the liquid shot straight out of the end of the needle, like water out of a fountain. She struggled in his one-handed grip, but for some reason she was very weak. Instead of pulling away from his surprisingly strong grasp, she brought her foot down as hard as she could on his right foot and slammed the needle out of his hand as hard as strength would allow her.

Crane recoiled but not as much as she would have liked him to. She took the moment to dart away from him, terrified of what he would do. By the time she launched herself off the step that led away from his room onto the landing, he grabbed her again, pulling her into him, his long-fingered hands on her lower back.

"Stop it Jonathan!" she yelled.

"Oh come, come, now Grace. Have you not missed me?" She slapped him across the face, having enough. He let go of her immediately, and frowned, his face half turned away from her. She watched the muscles in his face moved and constrain as he gritted his teeth, clenching his jaw. She had never slapped someone before, and it seemed he was thinking about something deeply, the skin of his cheek now a slight pink.  
"Nice to see some colour in your face," she sneered at him spitefully. His nostrils flared in temper, and he gave her a violent shove. He had been dreadfully reminded of his great-grandmother; her words were piercing, sharp like arrows flung from tightly strong bows, that wrinkle in her cheeks that were so like…

Unfortunately for Grace, she had lost her balance. The landing space was extremely small, and although the banister was near, she had lost her balance so completely she hadn't enough time to grasp it in order to break her fall. Human weight compared with gravity and an oddly eerie echoing house made a tremendous, if somewhat disturbing noise. The weight of her one hundred and twenty four pound body sounded like the clacking of heavy wood upon wood as she fell.

It was over in a flash.  
She'd tumbled down the stairs, hitting her forehead along the way, and soon within two seconds lay on the hallway wooden floor in a heap. She lay supine, and in shock stared at the ceiling for a couple of minutes before reacting. He stood stone still, staring at her, unable to believe what had just happened. He hadn't heard any bones break. Yet her movements were now lucid as she heaved herself upwards. He was denying it in his head, he had not been determined to push her down the stairs, yet the house was so small, everything in this country was small….

Grace was breathing loudly, as she pulled herself upwards and reached for what she saw, a miracle unsheathed, his mobile phone lying on top of the hallway table. There was a great pain in her abdomen, and she flinched in pain as her trembling hands reached for the phone. Her head thumped from her fall, although she had a lucky escape – with her added weight it could be much worse. She didn't take any notice of the man who stood at the top of the stairs in what seemed disbelief, or what she believed to be calculating thought. He was staring at her, breathing hard just as her as she was. She fell back to the floor, on her back, her legs unable to support her. She began to dial the emergency services.

Everything had happened so quickly, and yet as she lay there, she heard the sound of passing traffic and singing birds outside. It was a surreal moment. She'd had enough. Perhaps it wasn't an emergency, but she was going to do him in for once and for all – assault. The bastard deserved it. Her fingers slipped on the number pad on his worn down phone. He didn't have much time to register what she was doing, before he flung himself down the stairs, slipping on a couple of steps, and kicked his mobile right of her hands.

"They were just about to-" Grace stammered, rolling onto her side as she watched his phone bounce against the door frame of the living room. "_Fucking_…CUNT!" He blithely ignored her, picking his phone back up, and dialled the emergency phone number again. He turned to look at her, a frenzy of near-insanity, it could have pleased him at one point, but his mind was numb. He didn't want to deal with her anymore. She was a raging hormonal mess, and he had led her into it. He wanted to finish her off, then and there, but he wasn't some common criminal who slaughtered people for the sheer pleasure of it. He'd just have to slip something into the heating system, poison her.

He quickly called for an ambulance, saying the name of the address. He stored his phone in his pocket, seeing a pool of blood at the base of her crotch. She had not seemed to notice in her hysteria. He went to grip her arms and haul her upwards, but she would have nothing of the sort. She kicked and yelled at him, coming up with the filthiest words he had ever heard. She had lost it. Blood stained her sweatpants now; the base of the material was thick with it.  
"Grace, enough-" She hit him around the face, as she continued to throw punches at him, despite her weakened, fragile state. Her knuckles caught on the bottom of his lip, splitting it and soon they were smeared with blood. She scratched and bit at him, pulling at his hair and before he knew it, she pressed the pads of her thumbs down on his eyes. Grace had lost it. Tears were streaked down her ashen face. There was a forming ugly welt on her forehead where she had hit it on the way down the stairs. He pushed her off him, but not so violently this time, and embraced her tightly, so that her arms were encaged in his. She screamed into his chest.

"Let go of me! Let ME GO!" He pressed her head, with the palm of his right hand into his chest and clutched her tightly against him. She continued to shout abuse at him into his shirt. A bubble of blood was pooling at the base of his plump lips. He had a couple of scratches at the bottom of his throat, and about a dozen on his arms. He set his eyes firmly on the ticking clock that sat on the hallway table.

"Shhhh…" he soothed her, just like a baby. She had lost consciousness just as the paramedics called on the door, calmly as if they were window glazing salesmen. Her head rolled back on her neck as he clutched her, eyes rolled up into their sockets. He set her on the floor, seeing how much blood she had lost. The paramedics, dressed in yellow high visibility jackets and green overalls came in hastily, their eyes set on Grace almost immediately. They barely acknowledged Crane. Crane stood there and watched the process of it, coldly. One of the paramedics knelt by Grace, pressing his index and middle fingers on her white throat.

"Okay, I can't find a pulse," the paramedic said. He began pumping on Grace's chest, counting under his breath. The other, pulled out a defibrillator, unsheathing a couple of adhesive pads and cut through the thin material of Grace's t-shirt. Grace's pregnant belly was immediately exposed as the shock pads were stuck onto her chest and her side. Crane was shocked at how pregnant she was. Time had flown. The defibrillator began speaking.

_Do not touch patient. Analysing rhythm. Shock advised. _Her body barely shuddered as the machine shocked her. Crane blinked slowly, his eyes slightly wide. He looked at her lifeless pale body, heaped on the floor. Her mouth hung open, her tongue moved slightly. Her muscles went into spasm. _Start CPR. _The paramedic began compressing vigorously on her chest once more. It took a second shock for her to gain a pulse again. She began to move more naturally, and her body softened on the floor. Her eyes swivelled open. The male paramedic turned to stare at Crane after telling Grace where she was, and that she was going to be 'okay.' She certainly did not feel it.

"What's her name?"

"Grace Gilmartin." His words, like ice, cold to the touch of the air. The male paramedic, 'Dave' emblazoned across his left chest, passed a glance to his female colleague, who cautiously glanced at Crane. Crane watched them, without even blinking, load Grace onto a folded yellow stretcher. Her oxygen mask was kept on, and a blanket was covered over her bare chest. After they loaded her into the bright yellow ambulance that waited outside, Dave approached Crane. Crane had been busy watching the ambulance, carefully. It didn't occur to him his lip was swollen and red, there was blood all over his chin, and alongside his high cheekbone was a forming, angry weal. He analysed Dave without a moment's thought, condescendingly taking in his rather rough-and-ready appearance, towering over the paramedic.

"Are you students?" began Dave, and Crane barely nodded. Dave's eyes suspiciously roved over Crane's face.

"What happened here? Is Grace your girlfriend?" The questions wouldn't stop. Crane stiffened and looked uncomfortable, but his face remained immobile. He kept his eyes firmly on the fluorescent yellow ambulance ahead of him. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his slender neck. Dave had a frown line increasing in his forehead. Crane frowned back at him, not allowing himself to be confronted by this less than superior being. He wove an elaborate believable story within a matter of minutes which had Dave's face looking softer by the end. Something to do with her being stressed about her exams, and she had taken her anger out on him.

He didn't carve himself out to be a judicious hero; he wove a tale of calling her degree worthless and a waste of time, which caused her to leap at him in anger and half fall down the stairs. He cut out the part where she completely fell down the stairs due to him trying to sedate her, and then experiment on her with his new toxin, in the hope of calling both her mind off and to hell with the consequences of the unborn child. He couldn't feel less sympathy. His own mother abandoned him, his father had no interest.

He had never seen either parent, until a few years ago – he'd almost killed his father, and would have succeeded if that loathsome, meddling…..His mother did not care for him, and left him with her grandmother – his great-grandmother. He was the spawn of the devil according to his great-grandmother. Grace almost reminded him of his mother, almost looked a bit like her – the arched eyebrows, the plain face, the wispy mousy hair and deep-set eyes that were pools of murk….He knew she was going to give the child away, to some foolish couple. He had done his research. He had not taken interest in her for the past several months, as her belly grew bigger. But he occasionally poked his nose into her life when he needed.  
Dave gave him a sympathetic look but he did not divulge in why Grace's heart had stopped beating, or why she had lost a large amount of blood. Dave told him he could ride in the ambulance with them, and although Crane's nose almost wrinkled at the idea, it was too late now to back out.

Besides, if he stayed in the hospital with Grace until nightfall, she'd be his to finish off. It might be a foreign country, but he knew the ins and outs of the pharmacy in a hospital. He knew what was what. He glanced at the pool of blood on the dark wooden flooring of the hallway before he joined the paramedics and Grace in the back of the ambulance. He heard the wailing sirens, which seemed impossibly loud now as he sat within the moving vehicle. He perched awkwardly on a seat, keeping his eyes on Grace. Her eyes were open, but they kept flickering, and she only stared straight at the ceiling. Meanwhile, the paramedics were hooking IV drips into her and Lord knows what else.

The ambulance rocked side to side, and he felt the speed of the ambulance judder beneath him. He wiped away the dried blood from his low now plumper lower lip, with his upper wrist rather impatiently. Crane gazed rather jadedly at the interior of the ambulance around him, until he felt the ambulance finally come to a halt and the doors were flung open.

* * *

The next forty minutes seemed like a haze, both to Grace Gilmartin and Jonathan Crane. He stood outside in the rather busy waiting area, where Grace had been stationed.

He idly watched the relatives and friends of patients; one elderly man focussed intently on his newspaper, crinkling it loudly every so often. Two rather noisy children ran about wildly, their mother having lost control many minutes ago, and sat slumped in her chair. Another woman sat there, trying to read a manual on a phone she could not work. Couples, some middle-aged sat together, glancing wide-eyed around the lit-up sanitary place. People came and went, as he stood still outside the room where Grace was kept in. Time ticked by, he wasn't even sure why he waited – there were plenty of things he could be getting on with. It had been three hours, and his mind had been blank. He wasn't sure if they knew he was the father. He just sat there, unsure if the girl was still alive.

Finally, a doctor exited the room Crane was standing opposite to. The man glanced at him briefly, before looking at his clipboard and calmly walking up to him. He was dressed in a plain shirt and trousers, a stethoscope around his neck. He appeared to be wearing a see-through, light plastic apron. Crane saw spots of blood on it. Her blood. The man stared at Crane from over the top of his glasses.

"I'm afraid the baby has died, it died before Grace arrived here. Her cervix is fully dilated. I have explained to Grace she is going to have to go through a kind of birth, an inevitable miscarriage is what we call it. I'm sorry." The doctor waited for a few seconds, gauging Crane's reaction, but the other man simply stood there, unblinking. The doctor swallowed, mentioning he could be with his girlfriend within the room if he so wished. _Girlfriend. Grilfriend. Girlfriend._

Crane spoke nothing, and the doctor was left to turn back round. The doors, swing doors, allowed Crane a brief glance of Grace. To his surprise she was not sobbing. She lay there, quite still, gazing at the ceiling. Nurses were busy around her, engrossed in their own tasks. He swallowed, somewhat painfully. He loosened his tie that suddenly felt too tight around his neck. He had not realised his greasy hair stuck to his forehead and that his hands were clammy and that his shirt stuck to his back. He felt disgusting, tarnished and fixed his eyes back on Grace. He could not go in, he could only watch her. Damn her, damn her….Then again, he was supposed to be in there with her, they all believed him to be the father. He glanced at her pained, yet blank face.

She was strange, oddly vulnerable yet resilient all the same. He had never met anyone quite like her, yet he wasn't sure why she slightly interested him. He had never been interested in anyone much, never bothered with anyone. He was always better off alone; that was the way he had to function. He had been alone all his life, why should he start afresh? As if he would want to. The human race was as pitiful as they made themselves out to be. Some would call him pretentious but no one was as knowledgeable on the human mind as he was. As if anyone would be the same, as if their minds would be repairable, after he'd had his way. As if! He knew fear was what really drove everyone. Fear which bore greed and everything else.

He snapped back to reality, and looked at her, his mouth partly open. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, down his cheek. It eventually gathered into the slight stubble that covered his square jaw. She would tell them, she would point them to him, tell them, now in her alert pained state that he was the one who was responsible for pushing her, for killing the baby off in her. He bit the inside of his cheek in vehemence, watching her severely. He had not meant to do it, to push her down those stairs. That was not what he wanted, he had wanted….

"Why can't I have some pethidine?!" she kept saying, breaking his thoughts. It was too late for that, they said to her, and then other things he did not care to listen to. She slammed her head back onto the pillow, frustrated, gripping the sides of the bed tightly, her knuckles white with pressure. Her hair seemed to be soaked with her perspiration. He took a step, his long-fingered hand out. He pressed it on the heavy swing door with the gaping glass window and walked in.

No one took any notice of him, except a nurse, who looked on with sympathy. The doctor had taken off his stethoscope and now had a long-sleeved blue apron on. Grace sat there, in a hospital gown, her legs bent and wide apart. Crane forced himself to move, gazing at the amount of blood that seemed to soak every inch of the hospital bed clothes. It was an impressive amount.

"Alright, Grace…" instructed the doctor, who told her that the head was already out. Grace clutched the handles of the hospital bed so tightly he thought she was close to breaking it. She gasped loudly, scrunching her face up in pain, bending her head low and moaning into her chest. Crane found himself beside her. He was not sure how quickly time was going, but he seemed to be in somewhat of a blur. He was beset with something he could not place his finger on, something he had not been for many years, not since he was at high school. He took her hand awkwardly, having to prise it off the handle. It was cold and clammy. Grace had taken no notice of him up until this very moment, and howled when she caught sight of his dishevelled appearance. She snatched her hand away as if she had just touched a scalding iron.  
"Get him _away_ from me! He's the one that did-" Her words were cut off as she groaned in sudden pain, since her muscles contracted once more. The minutes barely apart now. He took a step back, his nostrils flared, glasses still off. They were left back in the house. He saw sweat all over her, over her neck, her face, her hands….She was soaked in it. She was fine physically. It just happened so, that the fall injured the baby. He felt someone's hand on his elbow. He turned to see a female nurse tugging at his elbow.

"Sir, I think it would be best…" He shoved her hand dismissively away and calmly walked out of the room. He burst through the swing doors impatiently, startling some people who were outside in the corridor. A caretaker looked up from the other side of the corridor, having mopped the floor a dozen times already, his eyes narrowed. It was that disdain, he thought, seething, as an elderly couple he passed gave him a rather sour glare. A female doctor who passed, looking at him intensely, as if she knew all his secrets….It were that familiar disdain, that one he had felt from others such a long time ago. It was several minutes before it was all over, and he stood there, beside a drinks machine, rooted to the spot, unable to think. He was full of wrath…

And then suddenly, he caught sight of the doctor clutching something rather purple in his hands in the corner of his eye. He felt the pumping of his pathetic little heart in his ears, as he gazed at what was his child. What was no longer, his child. It was no bigger than the doctor's hands. In fact, it fitted perfectly in his gloved palms. Grace had slumped back against the pillows of her bed. A nurse was clattering away, cleaning the equipment up. She quickly removed Grace's dirtied, bloodied sheets. Grace was still conscious. The doctor turned away with the tiny little thing in his hands.

"Wait…" she croaked, her arms outstretched. Crane's throat had an incredibly large lump form in it. The nurse glanced between the baby, the doctor and Grace and then reluctantly moved towards her, after wrapping it in a very thin sheet. She clutched it ever so gingerly in her hands, as if she would break it if she moved at all. Grace stared at it for a long while, its eyes closed, the tiny, almost miniscule fingers curled up. The legs and arms were bent, and in places it shuddered. She looked up quickly, her mouth half open in shock.

The doctor shook his head. _It's just a muscle spasm._

Her lower lip trembled, and then her chin began juddering. Her face screwed up in anguish. Her hands shook hard as she still clutched the baby and she began to take in small gasps of air, as if she was hiccupping. It was the onset of grief, those powerful sobs which often felt like a hiccup. Grace held the thing to her chest, running a finger over its forehead. She could not catch her breath. It was the kind of anguish he had sometimes seen in the asylum back in his home city. Usually the patients would be sedated within minutes. Grace kept her eyes on her baby.

It would have been a baby girl. She broke down into final tears; at long last, bending her head low until her forehead touched her arm, struggling to hide it. Her sobs left her breathless, and caused her entire body to shudder every so often. She wasn't sure how she would even give it up for adoption, if it had been born, despite her fondness for the adopting couple. The nurse held her shoulder, rubbing it in sympathy, providing comfort that was ultimately useless. Her body would not cease its shaking.  
Crane looked on impassively at Grace and their child, cradled in her arms.

He slowly entered the room. This was what it had not been when he was born. His mother, his despicable great-grandmother had told him had not wanted him. Yet seeing all the love Grace had for the dead child in her hands, holding it as if it was alive, was bizarre, to see the great differences. Her tears fell onto the baby's face, one by one. Her face was swollen with her crying and she kept sniffing, every half minute. He finally entered the bright airy room with ease, seeing how the blinds moved slowly at the end of the room, due to the breeze outside. The doctor left the room to clean up, and the nurse moved away, but unable to leave Grace. Crane opened the door again, and held it behind him, not allowing it to swing.

He cautiously walked towards Grace, eyes trained on the child. She was still holding it tightly, staring at it as if memorising every last detail. He walked slowly until he was stood beside her, seemingly towering over her due to his lean height. She would not look up, even thought she could feel his presence. She could not bear to look at him. He held a hand out.

"Grace…" he began, his low voice croaking at her. The tears just kept falling from her eyes, and she desperately tried to stop them, not wanting him to see any more weakness in her today. After what seemed like an eternity, she finally rolled her eyes up towards him; meeting his, light brown to blue. His face was almost pleading, and it surprised her. But it was angry, also, the haunted, nasty glint in those eyes of his never left him, ever. She glanced back at her child, her little girl. She looked at the child carefully. The girl, even though not a developed baby, would probably grow up to have his jaw. She had traced her fingers over it enough to tell. The baby's pores were not even fully developed yet, and they gaped open. The nails were as tiny as a fleck of dust.

"It was not my intention…." He spoke, voice metallic sounding from disuse.

She held the baby up to him, and he took it carefully. He watched her steadily as he took it. She watched him, his eyes now on the baby, away from her. It was curious to see him clutching the little girl. He licked his lips nervously, and held it awkwardly, as if he did not quite know what to do with it. It was curious to see him so coldly analyse what was in front him, although interesting to see him almost be human. He seemed rather different now that those eyes were turned away from her, and she gazed at his profile. He had tried to inject her with something hours ago. She turned the events over in her mind. Probably something he was brewing in that attic room of his, stored away in all those beakers. He experimented with people – perhaps it was to do with the university? His fascination with fear. Yet he had forced her, he had threatened her, he had hurt her….He had no excuse.

She realised he had not pushed her deliberately down the stairs, no matter how much she wished he had. It would be easier, so much easier.

She knew the child was of no consequence to him, or so he felt, yet to push her down the stairs in order to maim her and the child was not his objective. No matter, she felt no less than deep coursing resentment for him. Her bones ached, as her heart. As her poor heart. She took the child back off him, when he was unable to stare at it for much longer. The nurse eventually went to take it away from her, as Crane watched her through the glass door, sitting outside the room, almost shell-shocked. But she refused to let it be taken away from her, yet the nurse insisted.

Grace began crying again when the baby was taken away from her, and she could hardly breathe as her nose was so blocked up. Her eyes felt swollen and they ached from having cried so much. She wanted to ring her mother, but there was no resilience left in her, no strength. He had finally broken her, but not in the way he wanted. Despite her grief, there was still some semblance of strength. She soon fell asleep, turning onto her side. Dreams about her baby girl haunted her for the next few hours.

* * *

When Grace Gilmartin awoke, he was at the end of her bed, watching her. It was nightfall, and the curtains of the room were shut. It was a different room. It was small and cosy and a bedside lamp was on, beside her. She was still hooked into an IV drip. There was a glass of water and a box of tissues on the bedside table.

The room smelt of fresh flowers, yet she saw no flowers around her. The place was quiet, and her head pounded. She found her legs were stiff and there was an aching in her lower abdomen. She was hooked onto a small machine that was stored just inside her pillow, which regularly administered her pain relief every four hours or so. It seemed she was running out of it, as she felt a great ache inside her belly. She finally glanced at Crane, having taken time to look at her surroundings. For a hospital, it was a pleasant room. There was a small photograph of pebbles on a beach hung up on the wall. She gazed at him for a while, slight shock on her face, at seeing him there.

How long had he been there, watching her? He had a dark clean shirt on, rolled up to his sleeves. She shivered suddenly, the room was quite cold. She looked back at him, rubbing her arms. She wanted to ask him why he was here. She did not want him here; she could not stand the sight of him. She wanted him to leave and never come back. He broke her thoughts with a rasped whisper.

"Should I alert the nurse?" he spoke, eyes intense, once again. He was gripping the arm of the chair quite tightly, she saw the white of his knuckles. She couldn't answer him, and felt her throats muscles tighten. Bile rose at the back of her throat, and she reached for a familiar cardboard bowl that was on the other side of her bed, and threw up into it. Hardly anything came out of her mouth, apart from what was ingested water that she swallowed hours ago. It was yellow and it dribbled slowly out of her mouth. He rose slowly and moved towards her.

_This is familiar, _she mused in her mind.

"It's probably the drugs," he said to her without any emotion in his voice. He went to pull the hair back from her face but she stiffened as soon as he neared her. He halted, processing this. He then pressed a small red button that was beside the bed, for the nurse. A nurse was there within minutes and topped up Grace's pain relief. She was gone within ten minutes, having put a new drip into her hand. The skin on her hand burned red from the needle that sat in her veins. Grace laid her head back, when the nurse took away the cardboard bowl away from her.

Crane was still stood there, studying her. Gosh, she wished he would stop looking at her.

"Please, I need to be alone," she whispered, softly, not bearing to give him a glance. Being alone, although a terrible thought to her, was highly preferable to staying with the monster who had been nothing but malicious to her since she had moved in. She wasn't sure if she had met anyone worse. He turned away, and left the room silently. She closed her eyes, having forced her tears back again, and lay there, lulling herself to sleep. She was awake for two hours before she eventually let her exhaustion evade her.

By the time Grace woke back up, it was still dark, but not as dark as it had been. She saw the time on the television in the corner of the room, in digital numbers. 05.14. The bedside light was off. Jonathan Crane was back in the chair at the end of her bed, a sports coat on him now. He had been somewhere. She jumped in shock. He lifted his head to look at her more directly. It was pleasant, not feeling any pain when she awoke, despite her shock at seeing him. It was also pleasant to see him without that shimmer that always shielded her from looking at him properly due to his glasses.

Sleep was something that evaded reality that provided relief, despite dreams, from painful happenings. When she realised she was conscious and still in the hospital room, it all came back to her, the baby's face. She swallowed painfully. Her entire face was aching from where she had sobbed. She rubbed it absent-mindedly, trying to ignore Crane, yet her tears were unable to stop. It was as if her tears were water bursting through a dam; a useless endeavour to stop it. She lay back down, on her side, crying silently.

Crane stood up, his limbs aching. He walked over to her, after slipping his stiff sports coat off. He sat on the bed beside her, his weight causing her to roll into him slightly. He heard her whisper to him. _Please. _Crane pulled her into him a little and encased her guardedly in his arms. She struggled for a bit, but was far too weak to throw him off. She turned around, placing her hands on his chest in order to push him away from her. He moved his entire body onto the bed, having kicked his shoes off a long time ago. She had never been so close to him as this.  
She heard his heavy breathing and the smell of his breath. She could smell him, his clothes. It was strength to think he was just as human as everybody else. He had a faint lingering of aftershave despite the body odour that sifted from his clothes, having been through the day without showering. Crane pulled her into him, so that her nose touched his bare neck. She could feel his pulse, which was steadily beating, slightly quicker than normal. He almost shuddered at the contact. She had enough though, and pulled away. Some of her hair was caught under his arm.

"Please just go," she pleaded with him. This was too overwhelming for her. From his sudden violence, to the loss of their child, to his sudden physical contact, a rather awkward affectionate one at that. Her eyes were closing though, despite the fact she was in the man's arms that caused her to end up in this hospital in the first place. He whispered to her, and at first she thought it was probably malevolent words of what a useless person she was, how everything was her fault. _It was not my intent…._

But she knew what was his intention was. He was going to experiment on her. She swallowed and whispered it back to him. She felt him stiffen beside her. It was unusual to lie beside him, side by side. He was so long his feet nearly draped over the edge of the hospital bed. She didn't care; she made sure she had some audacity left to look directly up into his face, at his eyes, at his dark eyelashes.

"That was not your intention, but something else was," she murmured, finding it hard to maintain eye contact, suddenly wary that he'd chuck her down another flight of stairs. He put a bony hand to her face, touching her cheekbones with the tips of his fingers and then gripped it slightly harder. She became unyielding at his tight, yet not painful grip, feeling as if he was going to crush her cheekbone within a moment's notice. Then, it relaxed. He returned his hand to clutching her lower back and pressing her into him.

"You could have been the guy. You could have been the father, the normal father who brought our girl up…" she said, probably to herself more than anyone else. She knew this would anger him, for he nearly tightened his hold on her. Thankfully, he did not. She knew that he'd never be a father, not even if he tried; it would never be something that would ever, ever occur to him.

_He did not have a father who looked after himself, so why should **he** become one?_ His teeth gritted as he thought of his father. He'd been close to killing him, even after having the satisfaction of exposing him….Except that….Bat. He had interfered, yet again.

Grace wriggled beneath him, but she was no longer attempting to escape out of his arms. Eventually, she settled into his embrace, if it could be called that. He seemed to nearly crush her beneath him. He put his nose into her hair, faint smells of staleness and her shampoo smell drifted through his nostrils, which was probably a few days old by now. He kept breathing it in, all night, as sleep evaded him. He traced his hands over her arms and ran them up her shoulder and over her neck.

It would be so easy. So easy. Instead, she opened her eyes and stared at him, with a somewhat haunted look. It was becoming lighter. He gently pressed his lips on the side of her face, startling her. Her skin was surprisingly soft and tasted salty from all the sweating she had been doing earlier. He felt like kissing her harder, sucking the life out of her, as he so wanted to do. Sucking those fears out, but not for her benefit. Her pain killers were still high on their dosage and she shortly drifted away again. He let her slump back against the pillow, took his sports coat, slipped his shoes on, and left.

He walked through the corridors, ignoring everyone he walked past. He walked straight out of the hospital and did not glance back.


End file.
